Britannia Angel
by tsumimita
Summary: "You needn't worry. You'll only be Britannia Angel when peace is disrupted. Once peace is restored, you will return to your normal state. When world peace is truly attained, you will never be Britannia Angel again." USUK
1. Chapter 1

It was a regular winter's day, being terribly cold just as it should, especially in England. It was one of those days, where when one wanted to do something so bad, such as going to the beach, it was simply impossible. It was one of those days, where just to keep yourself occupied, you'd twiddle your thumbs and read the street directory. So if it was enough to drive a regular run-of-the-mill human to do such things, just what was Arthur, personification of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, doing?

Going about his own business, that's what Arthur was doing. It was nothing interesting, really. He was simply sitting in his house, sipping his tea after an exhausting world meeting and just about ready to doze off (it was barely even three in the afternoon. Feliciano must've been rubbing off on him). He honestly no longer saw the point in holding such inane meetings. As though they actually ever reached a solution to their problems! If anything, they only amounted to even more! At the same time, he supposed, it wasn't as though it was acceptable for him to simply boycott them. He'd have to keep complaining to himself.

With (at least, what he thought) a well-deserved break, he eased into his chair and let his eyelids flutter shut slowly, as if he had all the time in the world. Now, the meeting was over, he was in his own home, he was going to sleep and there weren't any annoying distractions to stop him from doing so.

So as if to prove him wrong, Reality sent forth an annoying distraction to do so.

His green eyes snapped wide open when suddenly an incredibly bright light pervaded his senses, only seeing white. Was one of the faeries playing tricks on him again? Or was this some sort of prank? Had someone (someone, as in either Alfred, Francis or that Prussian) followed him back?

Slowly, the light dissipated, revealing that there was indeed a person in the room, but it was neither nation nor faerie. Rather, an angel stood in the center of the room, large white wings fluttering in the air. A female angel, and one that looked suspiciously like Heracles at that, what with the perpetually messy brown hair and lazy green eyes.

"Arthur Kirkland, United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland," who jumped upon hearing the angel speak, "you have been condemned guilty of disrupting the peace of the nations…"

For a second, Arthur stood there, slack-jawed. Okay, so an angel popped in out of absolutely nowhere, in his own house without warning, and was now accusing him of disrupting the peace? _He_ was disrupting the peace? As though there weren't any nations out there doing worse to the peace than he was! And what exactly was he doing that was disrupting the peace, anyway? All he'd wanted to do was go to sleep; if anything, it was the angel that was disrupting the peace! He opened his mouth, ready to retort, but the angel took no heed, instead continuing her speech as if it didn't matter whether Arthur was really listening or not.

"…and as a result, have been sentenced to life as Britannia Angel until world peace is attained."

"…_WHAT?"_

"You needn't worry. You'll only be Britannia Angel when peace is disrupted. Once peace is restored, you will return to your normal state. When world peace is truly attained, you will never be Britannia Angel again."

"Wait, why-"

He wanted to shout – what in the world was with all that Britannia Angel nonsense? – but before he could even try his voice died in his throat, only to rise back up again as a sharp pang hit his shoulder blades, a keen edge protruding from his back as he bit back a scream. He felt something slide out, but that was one of his least concerns in comparison to the insane pain he suddenly felt. It pulled against his back, before the Briton let out a shaky breath. As soon as the pain had come, it was gone.

"W-What…"

When he looked back up, the angel was gone. Bloody bastard.

He winced as he tried to stand, supporting himself with his hand on the table. To think that suddenly he was some sort of peacekeeper after being accosted of actually disrupting peace! The angel hadn't even stayed to explain properly! As if he knew what he was supposed to do! (This was all, of course, assuming that it wasn't just a big fat joke.)

Arthur sighed, finally standing on his own. Hm. The room seemed rather cold, even for it being a winter's day. Why…

"…what in the world?"

The Briton looked down blankly to find that rather than having his stiff brown suit on, instead he was wearing a white tunic of some sort (one that he found, after twirling around a bit, was suspiciously susceptible to fluttering up and revealing much more than he wanted to…), his pants having mysteriously vanished. On top of that (or rather, below), even his shoes had been changed; from his dark dress shoes to strange, old-looking sandals.

So far, with all of the evidence, Arthur wouldn't have been surprised if Heracles had popped out and said, "Ha! You've been pranked!" And… were those wings on his back?

He craned his neck slightly that there were indeed, wings protruding from his back, pure white and, peculiarly, unmarred by blood. He was so sure that all that pain would have amounted to at least some blood being drawn…

In awe, Arthur flexed his wings slightly, pain momentarily forgotten. He ran a hand through the feathers, lips twitching upward at the unexpected softness his fingers met. So they really were real! When she had said 'angel', he hadn't really thought that she meant it literally. A soft glow caught his eye and he looked into what was left of his tea only to find something of a halo on his head.

He could only wonder how completely stupid he must've looked.

'_This reminds me of that stupid movie America made. Tooth Fairy, or something…_' the Briton thought, somewhat bitterly, repressing another heavy sigh. Well, being bitter was not getting him anywhere. Although at the same time, trying not to be bitter wasn't exactly getting him anywhere either, as for the next few moments, he simply stood silently, wondering just what the hell he had to do in order to go back to normal. (It wasn't as though he was in a hurry to get rid of his wings, but they really were getting in the way – plus, his wings combined with his current outfit made him look like a complete idiot…) Okay, so he was the Britannia Angel, or whatever. And that meant…

'_Damn it. Someone's disrupting the peace.'_

Grumbling, the Briton began to stalk around the house, wondering what the heck he was supposed to do. It weren't as though he suddenly had an epiphany in regards to where exactly he was supposed to go! He didn't even know what the problem was, or where! It could've been halfway across the globe! What was it, anyway? Had someone burned down a bank? Had they started a war? The scenarios that his panicked mind conjured up only got worse, and it wasn't exactly helping with his rationality. When he found that his aimless walking wasn't getting him anywhere or anything done quicker, he looked down to the stupid wand-thing in frustration.

"Doesn't this darned thing do anything?" he muttered, tapping the star irritably.

He really should've expected the bright light that engulfed him afterwards.

After the light (not all too different from the one that very nearly blinded him earlier with the angel) slowly disappeared, he blinked twice, rubbing his eyes in distraught as he suddenly found himself in the presence of Yao and Kiku, who stared at him dumbfounded, mouths gaping. Alright, of all the places, why the hell did he end up there? It was then he found the source of their (and therefore his) current troubles; Im Yong Soo, who was being impossibly noisy and was bothering the other nations, which was, in turn, bothering him. Great; there he was, worrying himself almost to death to find that the 'disruption of peace' was as trivial as this!

Despite his bitter thoughts, he somehow managed to keep a smile on his face, regardless of its authenticity as he stammered out, ignoring the stunned stares of the Asian nations, "Looks like you're in a bind… I'm an angel who helps those in need. I can make miracles-"

"England-san's lost it…!"

"Why are _you _here? And what's with that get-up?"

Well. That was incredibly rude. (That didn't make it any less true, of course…) Of course he looked completely bloody insane, but that didn't mean that they had to shove it in his face! It weren't as though he had a choice in the matter! He hadn't gone to purposefully humiliate himself; I mean, shit! Appearing in a toga and a kid's wand to one of the only people (well, person, that person specifically being Kiku while Yao openly displayed his displeasure) that respected him – he was never going to live this down…

"Er, I mean! It looks cool once you look closer!"

"R-Right! Cheer up, we wanna see the miracle!"

'_I have a job to do! Unless I finish this, I'll never go back to normal!'_

"Right! You want to see it! You _need _me! Take this!"

With this renewed determination he stood, and, for the moment, he'd ignore the surprised faces as he whipped out his wand, pointing it at Yong Soo and praying to God that it'd work.

'_Somehow, I don't think it'd be very helpful to scream expelliarmus. Darn that Potter brat…'_

No sooner had he thought this, the star on his wand began to shine, and with an odd 'pop', Yong Soo had transformed into – of all things – a baby. Arthur was absolutely speechless. Why a baby? Wouldn't that make things even worse? And in the first place, what caused it? Was it the expelliarmus crack?

'_A-Anyway, I have to cover up…!'_

"See! Isn't he cute! It's a miracle! Now, even if he's loud, you'll forgive him!"

For a moment, the Asian nations shared a dubious look at the young Yong Soo. Obviously, they had shared the same thoughts as him, but, finding that the Korean was no longer exclaiming loudly several copyright infringements and trying to grope anyone, they quickly broke out into smiles and agreements of his 'cuteness' as he spoke in childish Korean. Seeing as they were satisfied (and distracted), the Briton quickly ran off, managing to escape without detection. Just when he thought he could relax, however, he felt his wings begin to recede into his back. Suddenly feeling panicked, he wished himself back to his house with all his might before his wand could also disappear. Another _pop _later, he found himself back in the room it all started.

Back in the confines of his home, he relaxed, easing himself into his chair. If he kept on turning into Britannia Angel for such trivial matters, he was never going to be able to live through it. Why did peace seem so unattainable at the moment? And anyway, would it even count as world peace if every nation except _him_ felt peaceful?

Maybe he'd be able to finally get his nap. He tried to close his eyes, attempting to forget all that had happened (and failing miserably, mind you) before suddenly he heard the door click open and a person walk in. The blond gasped, suddenly alert, pushing his chair back as he stood. He hadn't heard anyone knock! Did he leave his door unlocked? But which nation was obnoxious enough to enter his house without permission…?

…Alfred. Of course.

"Hey England, where's- you're naked! Where's your clothes?"

Wait, what?

Arthur looked down for the second time to discover that yes, he was indeed naked. Naked, as in, all of his clothes had mysteriously disappeared, just like last time, except this time they weren't replaced. Naked, as in, the American currently had a full view of his birthday suit. Naked, as in…

Okay, what the hell! The temperature in London certainly did not skyrocket to the temperature it was now!

"Out! Out! Get out, you _bloody git!_"


	2. Chapter 2

Left and right, hell, Arthur was going underwater and to outer space restoring peace night and day. He felt like the freaking living dead, and yet, it had only been three days. Three. Fucking. Days. It had only been a mere three days since being sentenced to life as Britannia Angel and yet he was as tired as he could possibly be. He felt just about ready to give up, but then again, it werent as though he had a choice. Either he didnt do his job and stay as Britannia Angel forever or die trying. Why the hell is it that the world is a heaven when the Brits are the police, again?

"-gland, hey, England!"

The Briton shot up in surprise, almost toppling over his seat as he realized that he was still in a world meeting and had been in a daze for the past ten minutes; all of the discussion in one ear and out the other, earning reprimanding looks from several nations.

"S-Sorry."

"Could you please pay more attention? We need your opinion for..."

And again, Arthur lost his concentration and began to wonder about other meaningless things. Ludwig, deciding that his attempts of making Arthur focus were fruitless, sighed, and continued with the meeting.

Alfred looked on curiously, before shrugging to himself and turning back to the conversation.

"So anyway, I, as a hero, also speaking for England-"

"_What?"_

"Oh, so England was paying attention, aru."

"England-san, this is really important. What is your opinion on this?"

"...could I have a brief recap, please?"

The following ten minutes left Arthur sighing, slumped in his seat with a scone in his hand, only half-eaten. These days, he just couldn't keep his attention from straying. It must've been all that 'Britannia Angel' business. It was like a big joke! What was this shit about keeping the peace, when he himself was totally the farthest thing from peaceful? All the stress mounting up was affecting even his country-related problems!

'_I swear, once I find out just who the buggering hell is behind this...'_

...no. He had to give it his all. The Britannia thing was just a minor setback. He couldn't let down the rest of his country! He wasn't a nation because he gave up easily! And anyway, if he didn't voice his own opinion, Alfred would say something else for him – something completely and utterly absurd. Who knew what would happen if Arthur let that blundering idiot make all the decisions for his country...

"Hey there England, are you gonna eat that?"

Before the Briton could even protest, suddenly a calloused hand took the scone from his hand and disappeared into Alfreds mouth. Wide green eyes could only stare on in muted horror as the American began to chew the scone loudly and violently, mouth opening as he did so and giving the other blond a full view. Then the Americans features morphed into a grimace, and when he swallowed he almost seemed to choke.

"...ugh. This tastes like crap."

"Then why are you still eating it?"

Arthur scowled, crossing his arms with a defiant 'harrumph'. His scones did not taste like crap! No, it was such a refined culinary delicacy that the rough and unrefined tongue such as that of Alfred would never be able to understand its excellency! And no, that statement most certainly didn't hurt the Briton!

"Well, because no one else will eat it."

No, that statement did _not _fucking hurt the Briton!

When Arthur seemed to pout in response (_not _pout, fuck damn it, he was frowning like the manly man he was) to the (at least, in his mind) verbal attacks, Alfred couldn't help but laugh, ruffling the Briton's already messy hair with what almost seemed to be affection. Arthur could only read it as demeaning.

"Well, your cooking still sucks."

"Oh, sod off, you wanker."

Arthur swatted away the American's arm with a slight anger, pulling his jacket from the back of his seat as he began to clean up his files. Fuck, if that stupid American had nothing nice to say, then he should keep his big, useless trap shut! Either his wand was still working, or somehow (and the Briton highly doubted this) the American was able to read the atmosphere even somewhat, but Alfred kept silent for the next few moments, standing motionlessly as he watched the other man work. Several moments passed, the uncomfortable silence stretching to its limit. Then finally the American spoke.

"You know, you shouldn't bring any scones again. They really do taste bad."

Okay, so obviously, he couldn't read the atmosphere.

That sent him off the edge. As if the stupid blond hadn't shoved it into his face enough already! Okay, it was a fucking fact, alright! Yeah, his scones were bad, but that didn't mean that the stupid blond could go around dissing him for it! Arthur growled, opening his mouth to retaliate, oh yeah, you fucking– when suddenly a sharp _pang _hit his back, making the blond stop short. He clamped his mouth shut, face suddenly pale while the watching American looked on confusedly. Wait. He knew this feeling. He'd become all too familiar with it during the past few days. It was definitely...

'_Damn it!'_

Before either of the two could fully process the entire situation, Arthur had already quickly turned and had begun to run, leaving all of his papers behind in a mess, managing to stall Alfred long enough for the Briton to escape his sight. He ignored the Americans confused cries as he continued to run as fast as he could, panting heavily as he went. It didn't matter where the hell he went – as long as it was away from any prying eyes (and in this case, prying Americans)! If he was caught as Britannia Angel, his life (and dignity) was over!

_Damn it. _He heard heavy feet pursuing him, steadily and quickly approaching him. How in the hell was the American able to run so fast when he was such a fatass? He began to run faster when the footsteps came closer and closer, and when his wand began to materialize in his hand he freaked out even more and ran even faster.

"England! Stop!"

The Briton rounded a corner and sped straight into the men's bathroom, not stopping until he made it into a cubicle, locking the door with frantic fingers as he heard Alfred rush in after him, throwing his fists against the door.

"Hey, England! What's wrong?"

He tried to shout at the American to piss of, but instead Arthur bit back a scream, clutching his chest tightly as he felt his wings beginning to force themselves out. He breathed a heavy sigh when momentarily the wings stop moving, however he was unable to stop the groan that escaped his lips when he felt the tips come out.

"England are you uh, masturbating?"

"What? No–

The blond hissed in pain, accidentally biting his tongue as his wings completely came out, confined in the small space of the cubicle and almost rising above it. The Briton fell to his now bare knees, finding (with disappointment or surprise, he could not be sure) that even after all the pain he went through, there was not a drop of blood on the tiles. He breathed heavily, slamming his sweating fist against the wall and suppressing another groan. Why did it hurt so much this time? After the first time, he hadn't had any problems with pain! And anyway, why had his wings come out in the first place?

"Hey, England? Are you sure you're okay? England!"

'_Stop, stop saying my name...!'_

The banging at the door did not cease and neither did the pounding headache that had begun to form in the Arthur's head. Okay, now he was Britannia Angel, and there was a problem happening somewhere. Hopefully by going to that problem he'd escape his own. The Briton tapped his wand, however instead of ending up at the disruption as he usually did, he stayed in place. This left Arthur very frustrated, and confused as to who was causing the trouble could it have been Alfred? Then maybe the disruption of peace was of his own! But then again, it weren't as though he'd turned into Britannia Angel because of his own problems. It couldn't be...

"England, is this about the scones?"

"D-Don't be ridiculous," he stuttered out weakly, managing to find his voice again, but he felt something hot pricking at his eyes as he bit down on his lip. He was not going to fucking cry. Not now, not in front of Alfred of all people!

"Then come out here! I bet you're lying."

"Look, I'm not! Stop pestering me, you twat!"

"En–"

"If you think that they're so bad, then fine! I won't bring the stupid things next time!"

The green-eyed man hiccuped, before his eyes widened. Shit, had he really just said that? Okay, now he was in for a lifetimes worth of humiliation. However, instead of the stream of teasing that he'd expected from the other side of the door, Alfred remained silent. There was a pregnant pause, before Alfred swallowed so heavily that even Arthur could hear it through the door.

"I... I'm sorry, okay?"

Wait. Had he heard that right?

A shocked silence ensued. Alfred, possibly the daftest and most stubborn (besides himself, probably) person he knew was actually _apologizing? _The only time he'd ever heard the American apologize to his hamburger, and that was because he'd dropped it! The Briton stared at the door silently, eyes wide, leaving Alfred hanging before came a small, croaky and unsure, "what?"

"I know you're upset, and that, uh, you're too stubborn to admit it, so... I-I'm sorry. I-I know that it was my fault and I probably shouldn't have teased you so much, but..."

Arthur couldn't stop the short, shaky laugh that escaped him at the pathetic apology, only finding it in himself to remark weakly, "Is that really you talking? Have your hamburgers made you daft?"

Despite his sarcastic response, Alfred seemed to become livelier, shouting from the other side of the door. Arthur managed to stop a smile, and found, with surprise, that his wings had receded. In the end, he still wasn't sure exactly _who _had been having a problem, and for some reason, this troubled him greatly

"No! It's probably because of your– I mean, uh..."

The Briton rolled his eyes at the Americans hesitation, before shakily standing from his position, wiping his eyes vainly. He couldn't stay in the cubicle forever. Not only was it disgusting, sitting in there starkers, but it wasn't as though it'd help him in any way if he stayed. The blond opened the door just a tad, enough to be able to catch the sight of a brightly grinning Alfred.

"You ready to come out now?"

"...first, could I borrow your jacket?"

Just what was happening?


	3. Chapter 3

It was like some huge conspiracy; like some plot bent on screwing him over, a scheme formed against him. Like everything was a terrible, terrible joke that made even the nicest people with intentions far from ill and their rep completely clean laugh at his face and point their grubby fingers at him in his misery.

It was especially so since Alfred appeared.

The Briton had promised himself that this Britannia Angel nonsense would not intrude on his work, and yet Arthur felt like tearing his hair out as he realized that his priorities were beginning to waver despite his resolve; his focus was being undeniably dragged further and further away from his work and further and further into the Britannia Angel business, which was quickly becoming a business that heavily concerned the one and only Alfred F. Jones.

Even more than the conflicts and scuffles between the other nations, Arthur found that Alfred was becoming the huger disruption of peace. He had to expect it, really; the blond had been a troublemaker from the start. What he didnt expect was the scale on which he did so, his disruptions involving several nations at a time and almost three times a fucking _day_. Disrupting exactly _whose_ peace, he could not say, but it didnt matter that much since even if he found out hed still have to deal with it. To think that even after all this time, he was still cleaning up after that bloody idiots mess!

Of course he was bothered from it! Who the hell wouldnt? He frequently had to make excuses to leave during work-related matters, and all for the sake of not being caught as Britannia Angel!

There was no rule against being caught, oh no; it was just downright _humiliating._

Yeah, he was deemed insane by most of the nations already, yeah, he was willing to converse with faeries that no one else saw in public, but being Britannia Angel in public was a whole nother story. I mean, come on! A toga and a rip-off kids wand? Even one of Alfreds stupid cartoon heroes wouldnt wear something as asinine!

He had been a hair's strand away from that humiliation, too – in fact, several _dozen _times in the past week. And it was all about Alfred, Alfred, _Alfred__._

The first time (preceding a few others) was when Alfred decided to make a crack about his eyebrows. Usually, this wouldn't bother the Briton; it werent as though he were the first nation to do so, and really, the insults were becoming more and more unoriginal considering that Alfreds vocabulary at those times seemed to consist entirely of the word caterpillar. This time, however, the stupid American had compared them to the Big Ben, London Bridge and the Empire State building merged together.

Arthur wouldn't – no, _couldn't _leave his room for the rest of the day. Hed locked all the windows and doors, drawn all the blinds and had obliterated the key using magic, the explosion even leaving smoke out of the chimney as a warning. He didn't – no, _couldnt _– leave until he found a little note messily scrawled by Alfred the following morning.

The next time around, it was because Alfred had made fun of his scones _again_, obviously not learning his lesson from last time. Just after the Briton thought that the stupid American actually had a brain in that thick skull of his! Arthur ended up barricading himself in the bathrooms again, but this time, it was resolved due to a fat crack the American made about Francis that made him laugh so hard he was crying. He made sure Alfred didn't hear though, and by that time, he'd forgotten about the stupid joke that the bespectacled blond had made about his food. (No, he had not forgotten, he was politely ignoring! I swear!)

Several times afterward, the cause seemed to be what _Arthur_ did to Alfred (although the very notion was insane, of course); he'd insult him, usually about hamburgers, his stupidity or how 'heroic' he was, and then the blond would make a face. It was a pitiful look – that of a kicked puppy, his trembling bottom lip jutted out and blue eyes wide with tears. Before Alfred could retaliate, Arthur felt something stir in his heart (no, it was _not _guilt) and he ended up running off far, far away, once accidentally to Francis' house.

He was forced to hide in a bush for several hours, panting heavily, and he knew Francis was nearby yet Frenchman did not approach. The Briton eventually emerged, unable to do anything about his lack of clothing, and Francis, who was watching and was similarly unclothed, gave him a lewd grin.

He shuddered just thinking of it.

And then, only once (thats right, only once; definitely not twice or thrice), although it was something Arthur had often reflected on (before the Britannia thing), Arthur thought back to the American Revolution. His thoughts became so depressing (_not _because he was depressed that Alfred oh, who the fuck was he kidding. Yes, he was depressed that Alfred had left) that his melancholy had lasted for a day and a half, and only then did he (no, was _able _to) leave his house. This didn't fail to make Alfred curious, as there was supposed to be a small meeting held on the previous day (that the Briton had been absent to), and in reply to his incessant questions, Arthur would snap. And so, the cycle repeated endlessly.

there seemed to be a pattern with the causes

From all of this, Arthur somehow concluded that the only way to stop those things from occurring and sending him into an asylum for all the Britannia shit, he'd have to change the way _he _acted, no matter how much he didnt want to.

For example; he'd have to stop bringing scones. Arthur disliked this prospect greatly, but it had to be done in order to avoid being a wand-toting freak in a toga and a halo, something he _definitely _wanted to avoid.

He had to stop letting insults get to him – it was completely stupid and it werent as though he were a little girl! He was probably just confused due to the suddenness of the Britannia Angel incident and its consequences, and he was probably just letting all the stress get to him. Hed handled more than this in the wars; he could definitely get through something as stupid as this!

And he _had _to stop insulting Alfred. Yeah, maybe sometimes it was amusing to see the American all huffy, but in all truth, it got him nowhere, only serving to get the Briton more riled up. An angry Arthur was almost as useless as a drunk Arthur (basically, he was susceptible to giving away secrets).

Well, the sooner he went through with the plan, the sooner thered be less incidents with Britannia Angel. So being the smart guy he was, he decided to put his plan into action the following day.

The day started off as per usual. Arthur woke up, ate breakfast with tea (Earl Grey this morning) and changed into a suit, shirt done to the top button (no, he was _not _anal, despite what the American said) and then he was off to another meeting. But this time, (as much as he hated do) he didn't bring any scones or biscuits, instead bringing only a (surprisingly decent) sandwich.

This sudden change was greeted with a simple raise of the brow as he arrived, saying his 'good morning's as he routinely would. The meeting was then held as per usual.

No matter how much Arthur told himself it was all normal though, he couldn't help but feel nervous. For reasons he failed to understand, of course. It was probably the fear that hed still end up transforming despite his (if he did say so himself) awesome plan. Then where would the blond be left?

Alfred was the first to remark on the change of demeanor (not all too surprisingly, of course), sidling up to the Briton after the meeting ended.

"Hey, England! Did you bring any of them gross scones again?"

To Alfred's surprise, Arthur did not reply and instead looked away stiffly before walking off (with a great amount of effort, mind you). No matter how much he jeered at him, or tried to poke fun at him, Arthur would not reply in his usual irate way, but instead he'd avert his eyes and attempt to ignore his very existence. Only once did he manage a queasy 'fuck off, Jones' from the blond, and his glare was so vicious that even Vash seemed unnerved (by unnerved, it meant that he ominously cocked his rifle).

"It's really strange, y'know! I mean, I know he had a stick up his crazy Brit ass but he's never acted like _that _before!" Alfred bellowed, slumping down onto the tabletop with an unhappy flop. The blond looking at him from across the table twitched with annoyance.

"And, pray tell, why exactly are you telling me this?" Francis grumbled, resting his chin on his fist. The Frenchman was the country of _lamour_! He was obviously not the one to go to when complaining about such trivial matters! Anyway, the blond could not see how the Brits behavior was different from how it usually was. So maybe he wasnt shouting as much. Maybe he had a wild night or something. It werent as though this were the first time that Arthur had acted in such a way (he usually failed, anyway)! Oblivious to the Frenchman's mood, the American continued on with vigor, ignoring Francis' question entirely.

"Dude, it's like he's PMSing or something."

"I'm surprised you know that word."

"Shut up, France."

For a moment, Francis fell silent, staring at Alfred blankly before sighing into his knuckles, leaning back in his seat. If he said the wrong thing now, the other blond would end up sulking for the rest of the day.

"maybe you're just missing his attention, _non_?"

Alfred looked at him as if he'd just swallowed a whale, eyes wide with disbelief. In all truth, the Bonnefoy thought that _Alfred _was the one who looked like he'd swallowed a whale, or rather, like a fish about to get swallowed by a whale, what not with the gaping and his crazy stuttering, opening and closing his mouth similar to that of a goldfish.

"Well, I'm the hero! He can't just ignore the hero like that!" Alfred bristled, rising from his seat while the other man eyed him blankly. Yeah, because were totally buying that, Alfred. Francis opened his mouth to retort, but quickly clamped it shut when suddenly Arthur burst into the room.

Well, not really _burst, _per se. More like he dragged himself in there like a zombie.

When Alfred turned to look at the exact same time Arthur looked, the American's face was the exact picture of a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar, saying, "But they were _Snickerdoodles__!_"

Arthur raised a brow, thick with accusation but he did not say anything. No. Instead, he looked back up and continued to drag himself into the next room, leaving the two blonds gaping. Only when the door clicked shut did the two blonds speak again.

"_Merde__, _America! I thought you were _joking!_"

"See? I wasn't lying, man!"

"I mean, usually he'd talk about how stupid you are!"

Alfred failed to notice how Francis said 'talk about' rather than 'joke about', and instead continued to ramble on,

"And _you _were even here! But he didn't even _notice_ you!"

It did not go unnoticed by Francis, however, that Alfred seemed to be gloating about how _he _was noticed while Francis was not. Francis huffed a little, but decided to let the comment slide, seeing as how Alfred didnt even seem to notice himself.

"All this aside, won't we have to find out exactly _why _he's acting so strange?"

For a brief moment, they locked gazes. Then they broke out into a smile. But not just any smile, oh no; it was a smile that could rival Ivan's when he was in full yandere mode. It was a smile of pure evil and scheming (it was far from putting Ivan to shame however. If you even tried to consider it, no doubt the Russian would show up at your house with a pipe). And so, with no words or treaties, a strange alliance was suddenly formed.

"We'll just have to force it out of England"

A sneeze erupted from not so far away, a string of expletives murmured shortly after. He looked around in slight paranoia, before Arthur heaved another sigh for what must've been the hundredth time that day.

Everything was pretty much going to plan, and yeah, he was getting the desired results, but for some reason he didnt feel so good about it. Sure, his wings hadn't come out yet, and neither did the ridiculous wand, but rather than feeling better, he felt somewhat worse.

Not knowing exactly _why _made him even angrier, but it was pointless to vent. After all, he'd probably just become Britannia Angel again if he let himself get riled up.

He looked up at the sky tiredly, watching the rainfall. He lost himself in the moment, just looking at the dark, overcast sky, feeling himself relax. The eternal rain in England became dreary after a while, but it was nice to finally have something familiar to him for a change. In his trance, the Briton had not noticed that his wings had come out until he heard a door open very slowly. Then, before he could even process it, there was a sharp gasp and the shattering of glass, the door suddenly closing with a great slam and what he swore was an apology. He swiveled around, but found no one there; the broken glass on the floor was enough to tell him that someone had already seen him before running off. And so there he stood, dumbstruck. Then,

"Fuck."


	4. Chapter 4

Black eyes scanned the room wearily. It had been nearly a month since the last meeting, and yet things were even more tense than usual. Maybe 'tense' wasn't the precise word, but either way, the atmosphere certainly was not comfortable to be in.

Kiku muttered a small 'ohayou gozaimasu', receiving only a 'ni hao' in return. Usually, Arthur would also greet him back, and Alfred would get to him first, but this time they both sat eerily silent in their seats. What was worse was that Arthur had been this way for over a fortnight, and could barely keep his attention on the meeting, and that it would leave many problems when he did so. Alfred seemed intent on simply watching Arthur as he came and went, meaning that he would not shout his greetings when someone walked in, making him quieter than usual (this was a welcome, although slightly disturbing change).

And now Francis seemed to be watching Arthur _with _Alfred. Not only that, but they seemed to have been scheming something for the past week. For it to have taken that long, it must've been something big. The Japanese man sighed.

When the attention of three major nations was diverted, it was very hard to hold a meeting.

Whilst Kiku was pondering this, Arthur's mind was elsewhere.

Arthur knew that someone had seen him. He knew, but not about who. This knowledge (or lack, thereof) led to several sleepless nights and periods as Britannia Angel. As per why, for the latter, he did not know. He had been staying away from _him _as long as possible, hadn't even seen him for the past week (or any other nations, for that matter), and yet for hours he sat, waiting for his wings to fade away.

He looked up to glare at the American only to find that he was already looking at him, face blank and blue eyes unwavering. The Briton found himself flushed to his ears and he quickly looked down to his thumbs, twiddling them somewhat anxiously.

…Alfred was definitely plotting something. There was no way that he wasn't. Judging by the look that Francis had on his face, he was probably in cohorts with him. But why now, of all times? It was at the worst time absolutely possible. He'd have to think of counter-measures. What would Alfred do…?

The European looked up and engaged in a staring competition with the other blond. The rest of the room suddenly seemed to fall silent as they continued to stare. And stare. And stare. Alfred tried not to laugh, concealing it poorly when Arthur's brows began to twitch. Finally, he sighed, and averted his green eyes.

He just couldn't guess what he'd do. He felt utterly _stupid _for even _trying _to guess. Alfred was too obnoxious, too _unpredictable _to be able to predict what he was thinking. It had to be a counter-measure that covered absolutely _everything _the American could try. It was going to be hard, but not impossible.

…first, he had to think of something.

"_France, _England is staring at me scarily! I know he wants me, but he doesn't have to be so obvious about it!" Alfred whined, pouting at Francis, who raised a brow and chuckled at his cuteness, resisting the urge to grope him.

"Well, you were staring at him first, _mon cher. _You're going to blow our plans before they even begin," Francis whispered, drawing Alfred closer by the shoulder. Arthur did not even blink. His creepiness level increased. The Frenchman broke out in cold sweat but Alfred was absolutely oblivious, his focus suddenly completely trained on Francis.

"We've been planning for a week and yet we still can't come up with anything. _Angleterre _is already suspicious and is probably trying to find out what we're planning. He doesn't know that we haven't come up with anything yet…"

"I have a plan."

"…therefore- wait, _you _have a _plan?_"

"Yeah! Of course I do! I'm the hero, of course."

"Tell me, you!"

"Sorry, can't! It'll ruin the surprise! Just make sure no one finds out, okay?"

Francis cast a wary glance around the room, earning a disapproving glare from Ludwig and Yao, Kiku and Antonio having a curious expression. Reluctantly, Francis nodded.

"Alright then…"

A loud laugh erupted from the blond, sending everyone into a stunned silence, as Alfred stood and shouted blatherings of, "I'm the hero! This is what _I _have to say about _your _trade system!" or something along the lines of that.

Arthur narrowed his eyes and Kiku sighed.

Definitely suspicious.

The Baltic nations trembled in their seats as Ivan laughed heartily, with a light exclamation of, "My, isn't he lively, дa?"

A certain brunet seemed to be more nervous than usual, barely sparing a glance upward to another nation and instead, he stared down at his white fists strained in fear. When he did decide to look up, he only looked at Arthur and Alfred and nothing more (except maybe Ivan). Eduard and Raivis seemed to follow suit.

Of course, as soon as the meeting ended, Feliks was on his case immediately, going as far as suddenly pulling the Lithuanian from the hallways while no one was looking (or at least unwilling to do anything) and pulling him into an empty, smaller, darker hallway that screamed '_crime and rape!_'. It being Feliks in a dress or not (where was his uniform?), Toris found himself biting his lip and trying not to hyperventilate.

"Poland! What the hell are you doing?" Toris almost screamed, squirming vigorously under Feliks' grip on his shoulder, which effectively shut him up as it tightened, Feliks' expression darkening dangerously.

"Liet. You're hiding something…"

"W-What? N-No, I'm not!"

"C'mon, it's like, totally obvious! And it's totally bothering you!"

Toris averted his gaze, trying not to look suspicious. "N-No, it's not!"

"Ha! So you like, _are _hiding something! So spill!"

The Lithuanian winced as somehow the blond's grip tightened even further (if even possible). He gave a pained sigh, and shakily placed his clammy hands on the Polish… man's shoulders.

"…Poland. I'm not… hiding… anything."

Feliks gave him a blank stare. Even the densest of idiot's could tell that Liet was lying. He was quite possibly the worst liar in the world, after all. He calmly removed his hands from Toris' person, and he crossed his arms, clad in a girls' school uniform. He took a step back and just stared. He knew exactly what it took to break the brunet.

Minutes passed in strained silence, broken speech heard from another room before Toris began chewing his lip. Feliks' gaze did not waver, and, if anything, only bored into his skull even more intensely. Finally, he broke.

"Alright then, fine! I _am _hiding something!" he tried to shout, but Feliks had clamped a hand over his mouth just as Eduard walked past, calling for the brunet, Raivis hot on his trail and doing likewise. The pair gasped when Ivan passed by also, turning to look at them, before merely smiling and walking off in pursuit of the other two Baltic nations. Twin sighs escaped the two, one being more relieved than the other (Ivan was sure to get on Toris' case later…).

Toris cast the other male a wary glance, looking hesitant, before merely muttering, "Follow me," and he took Feliks' hand, walking further down the secluded hallway.

He stopped and furrowed his brows, still reluctant about spilling the supposed secret. What if it put the people involved in danger (himself included)? He looked up at Feliks, as if seeking assurance and the blond nodded eagerly. He moved closer to him.

"It's… It's about England."

"…_what? _How totally dull."

"Well, you wanted to know!"

"Whatever. Just like, keep going."

"So, um… I-I was walking… past England's room, and I… I was planning to give him s-some tea-"

"Omigosh, just get on with it…! And why were you giving him tea, anyway-"

"-Ahem. As I was saying, I… I went into his room and I saw him, and he had… he had _wings._"

Feliks' green eyes widened impossibly and he gasped. Toris waited for the blond to say something, but the Pole only ended up giggling like mad.

"…you're like, so totally lying."

"I-I'm not! Look, you've been bothering me to tell you and now you say you don't _believe _me?"

"But! I mean… that's like… totally insane. Like, to the max. Well, it _is _England, so maybe he did like, I don't know. Like his totally crazy magic things."

"Whether that's true or not, the fact is that he had wings. I-I don't think that he'll be happy if he hears that I know and I've told people…"

"Why would you like, even _think _that?"

"I-I heard him swearing and he's been in a bad mood. L-Look, just don't tell anyone, okay?"

"Well, if you like, really, _really _don't want me to tell, Liet, then I won't."

"T-Thanks a lot."

"Hey, what're friends for?"

That's what Feliks had said. And yet, he found himself having a _very _difficult time keeping his promise. He absolutely _had _to tell someone! It was impossible for him to keep his mouth shut for any longer. But… he promised! To Toris! He couldn't break a promise to him…

…yet despite this, he found himself at Feliciano's house, ready to spill everything. He was prepared for the heavy guilt that would come afterward. …he just needed to make sure that Toris didn't find out.

"Ve, Poland? What are you doing here? Do you want pasta?"

"I like, came here to tell you something. But in private," he added, as he caught the suspicious glance of Feliciano's brother, Lovino, who averted his gaze with a grumble when Feliciano smiled at him cluelessly. Feliks could've sworn that he muttered something under his breath that sounded like, "_mio fratello bastardo_!"

"Well… okay!"

The blond grabbed the edge of the Italian's sailor shirt, noting the time and lack of pants absently while clumsily dragging him over into another room. Feliciano didn't seem to mind, even when Feliks backed him up against the wall.

"Okay, so you like, totally can't tell anyone. Got it?"

"Yes…"

"So you know like, England?"

"Yes?"

"He's like… he has wings."

For a moment, Feliciano stared, uncomprehending with a finger hanging out of his mouth, with what seemed to be spaghetti sauce smeared over his lips. Then he suddenly let out a blinding smile.

"Wow! Eh heh, that's really cool!"

"I know, right? So like, don't tell _anyone._"

"Okay."

Feliks' gaze lingered on the brunet for a while longer, still doubting of the Italian, before he gave a satisfied sigh. He let go of Feliciano and walked out of the house, somewhat jittery. The brunet watched him stumble out of the house until he was out of sight. Then, with a dopey smile, he pranced back to the room Lovino was in.

"Ve, nii-chan! Poland just told me something!"

"What the hell is it? Don't tell me it's about that potato freak."

"No, it's about England!"

The first thing Lovino thought of was Antonio and how information against Arthur would benefit him. Wait, no, that definitely wasn't what he was thinking! Nope, no siree! Blood boiled in his cheeks but Lovino fought it down, averting his eyes as he managed to stammer out, "S-So?"

"Well, don't you want to know?"

"N-No! I don't, you-"

'Anyway, so Poland was talking about England," _'and taught you how to gossip, that bastard,' _thought Lovino bitterly, "and he told me that he like… saw him with wings."

In an instant, Lovino shot out of his seat, disbelief in his eyes as he stared at his brother. He half-expected him to say something stupid like '…is what Francis told me to tell you,' but when moments passed and Feliciano did not say anything, he sighed.

"What the hell? Is that a joke?"

"No… Poland seemed pretty serious. He told me not to tell anyone."

A blank stare later, Lovino continued his questioning with, "What, are they like fairy wings or something?"

"Um, he just said that he had wings, so…"

Lovino found this information useless (no, he was _not _disappointed), but still found himself having a somewhat one-sided conversation less than half an hour later with a certain Spaniard.

"-crazy bastards and their stinky cheese."

"Eh, really? How's Ita-chan doing?"

"-shut up you bastard and let me finish. Anyway, he's as stupid and useless as usual. So he was talking to that freak crossdresser and he told me that England has wings."

Antonio's smile froze in place and he turned slowly to look at the Italian man, who uttered an indignant, "What the fuck are _you _looking at?"

"Wait… England has _wings? _Like… fairy wings or angel wings?"

Antonio was so obviously trying hard not to laugh at the prospect of it being fairy wings, but Lovino was not amused at all.

"That's what I want to know. That stupid bastard just told me that he had wings and nothing else."

This conversation led to Antonio standing at Francis' doorstep, knocking in a frenzied panic so that he wouldn't _freeze the hell up _in the cold. He burst into a relieved smile when the Frenchman finally opened the door.

"Oi, I was doing something important. Come back-"

"No, no! This is important! I have to tell you something!"

The blond looked back behind himself and found Alfred rifling through his DVDs. Hopefully, he wouldn't come across that DVD of Matthew…

"Alright then, but be quick about it. I'm sure you have things to do, non?"

"Right, right. …can I come in?"

"Oh! _Oui, oui._"

The Spaniard profusely muttered _'gracias, gracias'_, wasting no time getting in, throwing off his boots and hugging himself with shivering arms, teeth chattering. He rushed over to a heater and sat, before sighing in delight at the return of warmth, then turning to Francis.

"So, um, I had to say something, _si_? Well, uh…"

When Francis raised a brow, Antonio jerked his chin at Alfred, who was now playing the PS2 he'd brought over, headphones over his ears and yet the volume blared so loud that it was deafening to the two Europeans. Were the headphones even connected at all?

"Go on. He can't hear you," Francis encouraged, giving a noncommittal wave of his hand.

"Romano was talking to me just a bit back, and he told me that Ita-chan told him that Poland told him that England has wings."

"…what?"

"I said, Romano told me tha-"

"_Non, non!_ I mean… did you say _Angleterre_ has wings?"

"Uh, yeah…"

"Haha! I knew he was a fairy!"

"Huh? No, no. Romano told me that Ita-chan told him that he didn't know whether they were angel wings, demon wings, whatever."

"But why would he have wings?"

"That's what I'd like to know."

The two stood silently, deep in thought. For what reason would Arthur have wings? Somehow, all of the options sounded absurd.

"What if he's… dead?"

"That's insane. _Angleterre _dead? That would mean that the country is dead, also, non?"

"…you're right. But then, what could it be?"

The two stood in silence, attempting to think of a reason as to why it would be so, before suddenly the Frenchman started laughing madly. Oh, merde, just the image of that Briton wearing a toga and little angel wings…! Francis continued to laugh insanely while Antonio could only watch in confusion. The Spaniard cut in,

"Uh, but if he has wings, why would he try to hide them?"

Francis, beating his chest and trying to breathe, tears of mirth in his eyes, finally seemed to calm down somewhat, snorting. "He's probably having a stupid reason, like being humiliated or something." Then he broke down into fits of giggles. Antonio dutifully ignored him.

"Do you really think that we should tell anyone?"

"…uh, where did you get the idea I was planning to tell someone?"

At the same time, the both turned to share a dubious look at Alfred, who had given up on the gaming console and had begun to entertain himself with Francis' DVDs, every few seconds shouting nonsense at the TV before cackling insanely. Feeling the stare boring into his back, the American turned around but the Europeans shook their heads furiously, saying, "nothing to see here, move along" or "go on". The blond shrugged and returned to the movie.

"…you're telling me that you weren't planning to tell _him?_"

"Now, I'm not sure…"

"Look, just don't say anything. I bet Ita-chan was told not to tell anyone but told Romano anyway, and didn't tell him not to say anything. Not that it would've stopped him, of course."

"Those two are so predictable."

"Just promise."

"Alright, then…"

"Whoa, hey! Who's that on the DVD? It looks just like me! …wait-"

"Ack! _N-Non, _that's-"

Meanwhile, Arthur sat, staring at the ceiling… with his wings unfolded. There was definitely trouble stirring. It must've had something to do with Francis and Alfred.

There was no doubt that they were scheming something insane. What if they tried to break down the house? What if they were stalking him? And anyway, for what reason would they be scheming against him? What in the world had he done wrong? No, it didn't matter why they were doing what they did. In the end, they were still going to do something, and he had to do something in order to prevent that!

In the end, however, the Briton _still _couldn't think of a way to prevent anything Alfred would try to do. If he tried to lock himself in his room, Alfred would probably try to mow it down or something, like with a bulldozer or a tank. If Francis was really his accomplice, no doubt he'd do much worse. All he could do was wait for his impending doom (and for his wings to just _fucking go away_).

Eventually, Arthur dozed off into a light sleep, slumped on his couch and everything momentarily forgotten. If he worried himself half to death, it obviously wasn't going to help him solve his problems. Surely, a nap would be able to help him think better? While his mind and body agreed, Reality didn't, as a loud banging decided to crack his skull and awaken him from his peaceful slumber. This, obviously, did not settle well with the blond.

"What the bloody buggering _fuck?_" he screeched. If his window wasn't already broken, surely it was now. He stood angrily, staggering over to the window in his half-lucid state, arms outstretched and ready to strangle whoever or whatever the hell just broke and entered into his house. But before he could carry out his murder plot, his wrists were grabbed firmly and a shaky voice spoke.

"Um, hey Iggy. I know that you're just happy to see me, but could you get some clothes on?"

'Since when has he called me _Iggy?_' Arthur thought, the strange sensation of déjà vu filling his mind with dread seeping in as he looked down to find that yes indeed, he was naked. He blushed, head spinning and ready to shout profanities but when he looked up, he found himself under the scrutiny of the blond American, his clear blue eyes so blatantly wandering over the Briton's form and his face slightly flushed. This only made Arthur shout louder.

"Get the _fuck _out right now!"

Arthur pushed the blond, turning quickly on his heel and storming out. The Frenchman whistled, only making the door slam ever louder. Francis raised a brow, an amused smile lighting his face. He turned to Alfred, who was rubbing his neck, eyes averted in what seemed to be embarrassment.

"Nice body, eh, _mon ami_?" Francis grinned lewdly, making obscene gestures with his hands. The American colored, pulling at his bomber jacket and biting his bottom lip with a slight tremor. "You know, it feels so smooth!"

"How do you-" Alfred began loudly, turning so fast he could've gotten whiplash but when Francis' eyes widened in surprise, he faltered, before looking away and muttering, "…that's gross."

"Anyway," Francis continued, ignoring Alfred's grumbles as he ruffled his hair, "you said that you had a plan, _non? _Well then, go on and carry it out!"

"I can't! He's not here yet!" the blond whined, crossing his arms with a pout, with Francis holding his own eager hands behind his back.

"And anyway… uh, he told us to get out, you know."

"You're giving up so easily?"

"W-Well-"

"Remember? The reason we're doing this is so that we can find out why _Angleterre_is acting funny!"

'_Even though I already know.'_

"Oh, yeah! Haha, I forgot. But I still can't do anything because he's not here yet."

"Oh, well then, speak of the devil."

"I thought I told you lot to get out," Arthur grumbled, still doing up his red tie over his white long-sleeved polo, only done to its fourth button, giving a nice view of his pale chest. Whilst Francis ogled shamelessly, Alfred looked away and denied himself any glances, earning a nudge from the Frenchman beside him. He coughed, and when Arthur looked at him strangely, Alfred decided to use it to his advantage.

"Oh yeah, but," cough, "I'm kinda," sneeze, "sick, so I thought that I'd," sniff, "stay inside. It's snowing," sneeze, "outside."

"I can see that," the Briton snapped, before walking over to the American with quick strides, a look of worry passing his face as he raised a hand to Alfred's forehead. "You… you don't have a cold, do you?"

"D-Don't touch me," Alfred suddenly stammered out, making the Arthur flinch in surprise, before pausing and faking a cough. "Y-You might get sick."

He snorted. "That's got to be the stupidest thing I've ever heard. Anyway, if it's not a cold that you have, then what is it?"

"It could be…" Alfred trailed off, before suddenly moving closer to Arthur's ear.

"…lovesickness."

"_What-"_

The Kirkland could talk no further as a pair of lips sealed his mouth, his voice suddenly dying in his throat. He felt large hands against his shoulder blades and the small of his back, and he could feel teeth lightly nipping at his lower lip. He opened his mouth slightly to bite back more forcefully, but Alfred took it as an opportunity to stick his tongue in. Arthur's eyes practically bugged out of his head, and for a moment he stood, motionless.

Then he swung his fist.

"Ow!"

"Y-You bloody motherfucker! Just what the bloody fuck did you think you were fucking doing?"

By the time Alfred was back and up on his feet, Arthur had already fled, having slammed the door even louder than before. Even Francis was surprised.

"…was that your master plan?"

"…well, when 'e ushually getsh angry, 'e tensh ta shpill shtuff but ah gesh not…" the American grumbled, holding his nose tenderly.

"Well, I have to say, that was absolutely stupid. Say, how did it f-"

"Don' wolly, I hash a backup plan."

"I hope it's better this time."

At that time, the very man they were plotting against was very much angry (if not sulking, at least) in his room, faced with the same problem he had to deal with mere hours before.

'_I can't escape from them, even in my own house!'_

And so, the same thought crossed their minds at the same time.

'_I'll definitely get you for this!'_


	5. Chapter 5

_Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock._

Arthur eyed the aged clock warily, anxious and restless before taking a brief glance at his doors, locked and barricaded, allowing himself a small sigh when not a sound the least threatening reached his ears. It was already past tea time, and yet the blond bespectacled menace was yet to attempt to ruin his life. Which, obviously, left the blond very suspicious. Could Alfred have still been sleeping? If this was some ploy to freak him out, it was definitely working!

…no, no. It wasn't working. Couldn't be. Nope. If the American thought that he could scare him even the slightest, well, he thought wrong! After all, if he really was able to frighten him, that would mean that he had won! Only… just what would he be winning?

'Stop. Bad, _bad _thoughts,' the Englishman quickly reprimanded himself as his thoughts wandered to the incident of the previous day, a heat that was quickly becoming familiar to him rising to his face. That… _k-kiss… _was certainly unexpected, especially from Alfred, of all people. It was something he'd much expected _Francis_ to do instead (not that he wanted it to happen, of course). But he wouldn't waver!

But still… Arthur raised his fingers to his lips, gently running them over the bruised flesh. It was still moist, and…

…no, he was _not _wavering.

And anyway, for what reason would Alfred do such a thing? Did he even really have a motive, or did he just want to make his life a living hell?! Considering Francis was involved, he couldn't put it past them. But still, _Alfred_…

What if they knew?! That person that saw him as Britannia Angel! For all he knew, they'd already spread it around and now it was a huge rumor! Dear God forbid Francis knew!

The Englishman found his eyes constantly drawn to the clock as more scenarios of the worst kind became more and more plausible. The throbbing in his head had gone from barely noticeable to barely bearable. That was definitely a migraine that he felt coming on… but wait, did migraines make your back hurt?

"…damn it."

His troubles were confirmed when he took one simple glance back to catch an eyeful of feathers so bright, it really should've been a crime. Maybe he should enforce a law against it…

The blond growled, feeling as if the entire world were on his shoulders from the pressure he was receiving, however instead of tearing his hair out and everything else he could get a hold of, as he was so tempted to do, he resolved to flopping down onto his bed, staring at the white-washed walls of his home. The way things were, he felt as if he were in an asylum. Arthur suddenly gave a dry laugh.

No, no. He couldn't be going insane. He _definitely _wasn't going insane. It was only a small trifle; it could be easily dealt with. Besides, he had more pressing matters that he had to deal with that concerned his people. Moreover, he had faced matters that were definitely more troubling than his current worries.

For a while, he just stared thoughtlessly at the empty white expanse of his wall, letting himself slip into any semblance of relaxation that welcomed him, and rejecting any thoughts that he just found too troublesome to deal with for the moment.

Stare, stare, stare. All he saw was white. By the time the dawn came, surely he'd be able to tell just how many cracks there were on his walls if he kept staring. And that was definitely a lot of cracks.

He blinked his sleepy green eyes before rubbing them tiredly. If he fell asleep now, and Francis or Alfred, or _anyone, _for that matter, happened to come in, they might see him as Britannia Angel, or what was possibly worse… _naked._

Although these things were those of which he definitely did not want to happen, in his lifetime, _ever, _he found himself unable to actually muster the strength to pull himself from the bed. Arthur dug his head deeper into his white pillows (he was seriously considering changing the color scheme of the whole darned place) and he looked absently at his hand, which was loosely gripping his strange wand. Of all the things, why was there a star at the tip…?

Suddenly, a thought occurred to him.

Couldn't he just wish himself back to his normal form…?

The Englishman shot up quickly, his hands suddenly around the wand in a vise-like grip, knuckles white and eyes serious and concentrated completely on it, trembling slightly with the applied pressure. Just what if it worked…?! He thought, if he could just do it, at least one problem for him would be rectified. Although it was just one problem, to him, it was a very _big _problem. And to have that problem gone, even just temporarily… the very idea made him grin maniacally, but instead of trying it immediately, he hesitated. What if it didn't work?

'Well, if I don't try, I'll never find out, will I?'

Swallowing heavily, he held the wand to his forehead, feeling somewhat stupid but nevertheless muttering quickly under his breath, with all the sincerity and desperation he could muster, "I wish I could go back to normal!"

He screwed his eyes shut, hands still clutching the wand tightly. He felt a tremor shake his knees. Damn it; what if it didn't work?! He never did take too well to false hope…

After what seemed to be millennia, he nervously squeezed open a single eye, slowly looking down at an almost painful speed. And in that very moment, he was quite sure that he had never felt happier in his life.

"Yes! It worked! _Oh yeah–_"

"Is this a bad time?"

The European was filled with dread as the heavily accented voice echoed in the apparently not so empty room and his chancing at a look above sent him scrambling for his blankets with a beet red face.

Of course. It was the Perverted Frenchman and the American Menace.

"The Union Jack, eh? Nice."

Arthur looked down at his blankets and, if possible, became even redder.

"…what the hell do you want…?"

While Francis seemed to be formulating a reply, Arthur noted the two blonds' casual wear; Alfred was clad in sneakers, well-worn jeans that had many tears (not that Arthur was looking, nope) and a hoodie that looked like the American flag cut up and then sewn together again, while Francis donned a… _pink _button-up that almost seemed to sparkle and dark jeans with dress shoes. Somehow very suspicious.

"I said, what do you _want?_"

"We'll tell you after you get dressed. Then you'll feel more comfortable, _non?_"

Begrudgingly, Arthur nodded. The Frenchman threw the other blond one last grin before taking his leave, Alfred in tow and closing the grand wooden door behind him. For a moment, Arthur eyed the door, watching for any movements in the brass doorknobs. He found it still, and so he hesitantly shuffled out of his soft bed, trudging over to his wardrobe and reaching for a long-sleeved polo, eyes still throwing surreptitious looks over to the door.

"_Amérique__, _just what are you planning to do?!"

"I don't _have _a plan!"

"_What?! _And I thought the scariest thing that you'd ever say was that you _had _a plan! I thought you already had a plan, damn it!"

"W-Well, I know what I'm going to do, but I haven't planned it out!"

"So then, what is it?! What are you going to-"

"Hey, what is this talk of a _plan?!_" Arthur suddenly called out from inside the room, suspicion evident in his voice. The rustling of clothes could be heard even from the other side of the door, making Francis and Alfred swallow heavily when it seemed like Arthur was moving closer towards the door. The two scheming blonds panicked, and Francis scrambled his brains looking for some excuse to keep the Englishman satisfied.

"W-We, uh-"

Suddenly the door opened, revealing a very grumpy Arthur, his hair slightly tousled as he ran a hand through it tiredly, wearing a dark brown suit. Francis raised a brow whilst Alfred suppressed a snicker, failing miserably.

"Heh! Geez, you're such an old geezer, England."

"And just what is _that _supposed to mean?!"

"Just where do you think we're taking you, huh?"

"What…?" Arthur trailed off confusedly, unsure of the two's intentions, "what do you mean?"

"Well… we're… we're taking you to a bar, of course!"

"_What!_"

Arthur and Francis suddenly called out in unison, the latter promptly averting his eyes and faking a cough into his knuckles, yet it could not deter the suspicion that was quickly arising within Arthur, who narrowed his eyes as he scanned the two.

"And just _why, _pray tell, would you be doing this in the first place?"

The blond asked cautiously, crossing his arms as he leaned against the doorframe. At that moment, Francis was sure he was sweating buckets. He looked to Alfred, who went into a fit of 'um's and mumbling before he finally spoke.

"Well…" Alfred began, his eyes wandering off to his left as he scratched the back of his head, racking his brains for a reason. They stood in awkward silence as either of the intruders failed to answer until suddenly, Alfred smiled, face lighting up and the whole works, catching Arthur off guard before he turned back to him.

"We're doing this because you've seemed a bit down lately!"

Arthur couldn't even hide how clearly taken aback he was. Doing it because he seemed down? Did they think he was a moron? It just wasn't possible; Alfred must've been the biggest airhead ever known to man and Francis hated his guts, it being a mutual feeling. They could not be serious! It was definitely a joke!

"H-Hey now," he stammered out weakly, managing a nervous chuckle, "April Fools is already over, you know!"

"Huh?! Iggy, I'm not joking!" Alfred huffed, also crossing his arms with a defiant yet mocking glare, seemingly offended at the very idea of what he said being a joke.

"Yeah," Francis suddenly piped up, "_Japon_ and _l'Allemagne_ have been complaining lately about your 'lack of participation' in the meetings."

"Gee, thanks," Arthur grumbled, looking slightly disappointed as he placed his hands on his hips, rolling his eyes and giving a huff.. "To think for a second that I felt touched!"

"Well, big brother France can fix that!" Francis suddenly leered, making a grab near Arthur's vital regions but was slapped away with a disgusted look, Arthur reeling back.

"Don't even think about it."

"Let's just hurry up and get a move on! We don't have all day, you know!"

Alfred and Francis rushed outside, seeming very excited as they proceeded to drag a slightly dumbfounded Arthur straight out the door and onto the pavement filled with snow, very nearly tripping over as they ran. The loud thumping of their footsteps drowned out any thoughts that Arthur had, but as the door was slammed open and he was pulled out, the sudden cold that ran through him managed to bring him back to reality.

"What the hell, you two! You came here dressed like _that_?! I'm not surprised if you have chilblains!"

"W-We're fine," Alfred grinned for reassurance, even though his teeth were so obviously chattering and he was shivering from head to toe. Francis was doing likewise, although twice as bad due to his thinner clothing.

"A-Anyway, just hurry up and get into my car!"

Arthur eyed the shiny red Mercedes that the Frenchman seemed to be referring to, letting his eyes wander over it with a slight appreciation barely showing before taking a brief glance at Francis himself, seeming slightly anxious.

"…hey, you wine bastard. Can you even _drive?_"

"You dare doubt my driving skills, _mon ami?_ Fine. I shall let _Amérique _drive instead."

"…you can drive."

The Englishman slowly shuffled into the backseat of the car, overwhelmed by the smell of perfume and still dubious to the intentions of the two, while Alfred practically leapt into the car and slammed the door shut, earning a distressed, 'hey, don't hurt my baby!' from Francis.

As Francis revved up the engine and the car finally began to move, Arthur let himself relax and get lost in the scenery. It'd been a while since he'd last left his house willingly. Maybe this trip was for the better…

Meanwhile, whilst Arthur was off with the faeries, Francis and Alfred were desperately trying to come up with a plan that really should've already been made. The Frenchman was slowly feeling the effects of being around Alfred too long settle in…

"_Amérique, _this is why you shouldn't do shit like this on the spot! Now, we don't know where the hell to go!"

"J-Just chillax, man! We can just go to the bar that me and England sometimes go to!"

"…you never told me you went drinking with _Angleterre_!"

"It's only sometimes, though! And it's more like he gets drunk and I have to listen to him moaning and groaning," making Francis smirk at the unintentional innuendo, "rather than us actually drinking _together._"

"Really…"

The rest of the trip was eerily silent, especially so when taken into consideration that both Alfred and Arthur were in the car together, then doubly so considering it was Alfred, Arthur and _Francis. _A tad bit worried from the lack of noise, Alfred turned to check that the other blond in the back wasn't dead or comatose; he found that Arthur was neither, but found himself even more worried rather than relieved as he noticed Arthur smiling jovially to himself and seeming to be conversing with his 'imaginary friends'. Sometimes, Alfred truly feared for his sanity…

"We're here already."

"I'm surprised that we aren't sprawled dead on the sidewalk."

"Ha ha. Very funny, _Angleterre._"

The three blonds stepped out of the car, some slower than others. The Frenchman gave his car a loving pat before locking it, then following the other blonds with their cold breath fresh in the air. They trudged heavily through the slippery ice, Alfred having more than once to grab a hold of Arthur in order to keep his balance, almost tripping over Arthur himself as Francis ushered them into a dilapidated ("It is _not!_ It's just… aged.") building that was supposedly the bar, if the sign in front that quite clearly stated it being a bar had anything to show for it.

The heavy stench of alcohol invaded the trio's senses as soon as they so much as stepped through the door, it being so strong that a regular person would've already keeled over dead, but the three nations were so accustomed to the scent that they headed straight over to a table without showing any signs of being the slightest bit uncomfortable, being promptly brought a jug of beer. As they settled down, Alfred began a small conversation.

"So, hey, Iggy. What've you been doing lately?"

The Englishman downed an entire mug before he could reply, both Alfred and Francis looking shocked. The blond didn't look tipsy in the slightest, although he did seem to be a tad more easy-going. The once tense atmosphere eased into something more comfortable as the three progressively drank more and more. The truth was, however…

"Dude, France. He's completely wasted!"

Francis didn't need to look to confirm it. Arthur was very loudly – and very drunkenly – shouting out random things, some directed at the other stunned patrons. The way the bartender was eyeing him, they'd probably get kicked out if the intoxicated Englishman didn't 'shut the fuck up', as Alfred had so put it, before shaking the other blue-eyed blond vigorously.

"Quick! Ask him what's wrong!"

The French blond merely stared at the American, uncomprehending as a result of how shell-shocked he really was at Arthur's behavior. For once, Alfred was compelled to call someone else an idiot as he groaned, slapping a hand against his forehead.

"The reason I got him drunk is because he tends to spill stuff, remember? Duh!"

"O-Oh. Right. Forgive me, _mon ami_," Francis said sheepishly, rubbing the back of his head before he turned to Arthur.

"Okay then. _Angleterre. _What's been bothering you lately?"

Arthur stopped in the middle of raising another mug of beer to his lips, and for a moment, the two blue-eyed males thought that Arthur had them figured out. Then the Englishman snorted and chugged his drink, drowning out the relieved sighs of the duo.

"Pfft. Wh-What's goin' wrong? _Everything's _goin' wrong!!"

At this, Alfred raised a brow, sharing a look with Francis.

"Well, then. Do tell your good friends about it, eh?"

The blond hiccupped, setting down his drink with a deep scowl.

"T-That damned Korea… keeps 'n annoyin' China 'n tha rest… won't just shut the bloody fuck up…"

'What does _that _have to do with anything?' Alfred mouthed to Francis confusedly, but he only earned an equally confused shrug from the other blond as a reply.

"Things 'n Thailand haven't been goin' so well, looks like there could be a damned civil war… lot's 'f political unrest, 'n not just 'ere either…"

Arthur ended up going off on a tangent about everything that seemed to be going wrong, a lot of it seeming to be completely irrelevant to him, including things that went as far as wars going on across the ocean to problems on a smaller scale, like relationship problems or tensions between other countries. In fact, Arthur even mentioned Alfred and Francis; the two were sure that they'd been caught, but then the Englishman went on about conspiracy theories; obviously, he didn't know what was actually going on yet. Then he'd continue about the other countries' problems. Francis and Alfred seemed confused, both trying to work out just how exactly those incidents were actually related to the blond, but they nonetheless listened intently to the Englishman, who seemed to be trailing off. Finally, the trio fell into an awkward silence, the loud banter from other tables seeming distant.

"…a-and…" Arthur suddenly continued, making Alfred and Francis quickly snap their heads back to him, "…that stupid Greece… won't just 'fess up to Japan 'n 's gettin' on me nerves!"

He ended his statement with a shout, slamming his mug onto the table, startling several people, including Alfred and Francis, before refilling it and taking another swig, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like, "I bet it has something to do with Turkey…"

The duo stared at him, looking at their own drinks. They'd barely finished their first drink, and Arthur was probably on around his fifth. With a furrow of his brows, Francis grabbed Alfred by the shoulder not all too gently and turned the American away from the Englishman, who was too drunk to notice.

"_Amérique, _you think he's telling the truth? I mean, as you said, he's pretty pissed at the moment."

"Well, yeah. He always tells the truth when he's drunk. It's pretty funny, actually."

"But why would he care if _Grèce_wasn't confessing to _Japon_? Is he jealous or something?"

"He's never seemed to particularly _like _any of the two. He's always polite to everyone, so I can't really tell if he's giving them special treatment or not."

"Polite to everyone except you and _moi__._"

"Whatever. But he's definitely telling the truth. And now we know what's bothering him. Only, we don't know _why _it's bothering him."

"Geez. And I'd always thought that _Angleterre _was a simple person. Well, besides the fact that he absolutely won't sleep with me."

Francis suddenly pursed his lips, averting his eyes. He had an idea of why it was bothering him. But he couldn't tell Alfred. It must've had something to do with the wings. He just couldn't think of any other reason. But what could it be? Just how were those incidents and the wings related? So far, it seemed like everything that was bothering him had to do with the other countries, rather than about himself. If anything, none of the incidents were actually directly related to himself. So why would he be troubled by it?

"…and-and then… hey, are ya bloody bastards even listenin' ta me 'nymore?!"

Alfred rolled his eyes and turned back, Francis following suit.

"'Course we're listening to you, buddy. But, why're you so bothered about all that?"

For a split second, Francis looked panicked, but Alfred took no notice.

"…'c-cause… them… w… wings… f-fuck…"

"Huh? Wings? What–"

And Arthur promptly threw up.

Alfred and Francis just stared, wide-eyed. Arthur also seemed to be staring, except at his mug. The trio fell silent, before suddenly Arthur took another drink.

"Okay! That's enough for you! Time to go!"

The two grabbed the Kirkland's arms and, ignoring the curious glances, literally dragged the still intoxicated Englishman across and out of the bar, having him scream profanities loud enough to warrant him a fine as a public disturbance as they dragged him through the snow, clothes sodden.

"What the hell are we supposed to do with him?!" Alfred called out to Francis over Arthur's screaming as he hauled the blond into the car, with Francis eyeing the blond carefully – what if Arthur threw up on his car?! – while he walked over to the driver's side of the car.

"What do you mean? Of course, _I'll _take him home and–"

"No! Forget it, man! _I'm _taking him home!"

"_I'm _closer! How did you even _get _here, anyway?!"

"I flew, _duh!_"

"Then how are you going to get _Angleterre _to your house?! …wait. Don't tell me," Francis smirked, "you want to keep him for yourself, _non?_"

"W-What!" Alfred stammered out, his face flushing crimson as he flailed, almost dropping the Englishman in the process. "Of course not! Only _you _would think of doing something as unheroic as that! But I'm a _hero! _I'd never do that!"

"Yeah, yeah. Whatever you say, _Amérique._"

"He's still not going to your house, though."

"Alright, alright. But can you really take him to _your _house?"

"Ugh, fine. Just take him back to his house."

"_Oui, oui._"

And so, that's how a few minutes later, accompanied by a bit of shouting and the denting of several vehicles (including Francis'), the duo ended up breaking into the now unconscious Englishman's house and smuggling said Englishman in. Alfred, who had been carrying Arthur the entire trip over, set the Englishman down on his couch before hunching over with his hands on his knees, panting, "dang, the old man's heavy!"

"You've got to undress him, you know."

"What?! Why?!"

"Well, you wouldn't want him to sleep covered in his own vomit, do you now?"

"Well, no…"

"Good. Then that's settled. Unless you want _me _to–"

"Nope! It's all good! I'll do it!"

Francis rolled his eyes and threw his arms up with a slight grin when Alfred glared at him, not making a move to remove any of Arthur's clothing until the Frenchman turned away. The American let his gaze linger on Francis only a moment longer, and when the blond began humming and bouncing on the balls of his feet, Alfred finally grumbled and reluctantly shuffled closer towards the thick-browed man.

Fingers trembling, he lightly gripped the heavy suit-jacket and gently shook it off. He paused, Arthur having groaned and turned over on his side. The green-eyed man finally stilled, and so, Alfred continued from where he left off by slowly unbuttoning the white polo.

"_Amérique, _my pants won't wait all day, you know!"

"S-Shut up!"

Francis' whistling was really starting to grate on his nerves. Alfred quickened his pace and looked away, feeling somewhat guilty as he pulled off the sullied article of clothing. The once milky white skin that Alfred had seen only a few hours ago seemed to be even paler and more sickly, and Arthur seemed a lot thinner than the American originally thought he was… had he lost some weight?

"Hey, France?"

"Hm?"

"What am I supposed to do? I mean, I don't want him to sleep in is own vomit, but I don't want him to sleep naked, either."

"Just go through his dresser or something."

The American nodded, although Francis couldn't see him, and he made a move to stand, but he gave an _absolutely _manly shriek as he was suddenly pulled back by his hoodie. He grumbled, and when he looked back, sure enough, Arthur had a tight grip on his clothes. As far as he could tell, the Englishman was still asleep.

"France! He's grabbing onto me! What do I do?!"

"Why are you asking me?"

Alfred scowled at the Frenchman, who had gone back to humming and ignoring the American. When the blond finally concluded that Francis was not going to help him in any way, he sighed. He found his gaze wandering to Arthur, who was lightly snoring and muttering nonsense under his breath, curled up in foetal position. Alfred felt the corners of his mouth curl upward when he noticed a thin trace of drool running from the blond's mouth. When he was asleep, he seemed so peaceful; something that was rare these days, what with all the trouble that he seemed to be going through. At first, Alfred thought it was just some little thing that would go away in time, but now he could really see the effects that the stress was taking on Arthur's body.

Alfred bit his lip, staring at the Englishman a while longer before he finally sighed. The American unzipped his hoodie, the sound making Francis turn around in surprise as Alfred shook it off and placed it over the blond man's shoulders. Francis raised a brow with a light smile at these actions. Obviously, Alfred didn't understand the implications he was leaving, but he didn't say anything.

"'Wish I could figure out what's going on with him before I had to leave."

Francis merely stared at him, his arms crossed.

"…who knows? Maybe you'll find out what's wrong with him while you're away."

Alfred only smiled.

"…maybe."


	6. Chapter 6

Arthur greeted the morning sun with a half-hearted curse and a head-splitting headache. For a great while, he sat, sight blurred and the room spinning terribly, not knowing just what the heck happened the previous night. Did he get drunk? He must've, if he was suffering a horrible headache and feeling very compelled to vomit. So did he get laid? Maybe his partner was still asleep. The Englishman turned to look next to him, only to find that he was sleeping on a couch and there was not room for anybody to be there in the first place. So maybe that wasn't what happened.

As the Kirkland sat, he slowly became aware that this place was not completely unfamiliar. Again, the blond ended up sitting silently and trying to find out where exactly he was, before finally comprehension dawned on his face.

Of course, it was his house.

He gave a relieved sigh. Then, suddenly a sinking feeling made itself present in his stomach, and no, it was not his hangover. Why was he in his house, on his couch? He didn't recall having fallen asleep there, or rather, he couldn't recall having fallen asleep at all. He desperately tried to recount the events of the previous day, and the only thing he could come up with was Francis and Alfred suddenly invading his room. He knew he was forgetting something very, _very _important, but he just couldn't remember. It was related to the entire Britannia Angel business, but what…?

…oh. _Oh._

He had almost spilled everything out to the two blonds.

That's right; they had gone to a bar, and they had gotten drunk. At least, Arthur got drunk. He couldn't exactly speak for the other two, after all, he _did _get pretty plastered quickly. The Englishman felt anger well up in him before he could try to stop it. They had definitely planned it all out. He knew that they had been scheming something! Those two couldn't be subtle about anything if it saved their lives!

Arthur suppressed the urge to scream out his frustrations and decided to get out. He had to go find that American and seek out his revenge, after all. Well, maybe after killing Francis. Perhaps no one would notice? He was a huge hindrance, anyway…

The Englishman made a move to stand, but was hindered by an article of clothing draped over him.

'What the hell?'

His sanity seemed to be slowly dwindling, with his headache growing stronger and stronger.

It was Alfred's hoodie from the night before.

Immediately, he assumed the worse, and he felt his face burn with all the blood rushing to his face. Almost panicking, he again attempted to recollect what had happened the previous night, but to no avail. All his memories before having left for the bar and after getting wasted to the point of throwing up had completely gone down the drain. Had he really just passed out after he couldn't handle the alcohol? He tried to trample down the possibility of something else happening, but he could not completely scrap the idea.

'Well, as long as it wasn't…'

Arthur caught himself in the middle of his thoughts and, if possible, became even redder. Just what was he about to think? 'As long as it wasn't Francis'? D-Did that mean it was okay with him if it were Alfred doing it?

He decidedly ignored that thought, despite its constant itching at the back of his mind, and desperately tried to disprove the possibility. Alfred was a self-proclaimed 'hero', and would probably believe it to be absolutely unheroic to do such a thing. He wasn't so sure about Francis, but he was pretty certain that Alfred wouldn't let him do anything to him. But then, why was he sitting in his pants with Alfred's hoodie draped over him?

…he was over thinking it. He needed a cup of tea.

'I probably just threw up on myself and passed out. That's why I'm not wearing my shirt. Yeah, that's it. It makes much more sense.'

As the Englishman stood to make his tea, he couldn't ignore the feeling that he was forgetting something important. He had already resolved the problem with his forgetting of the night before and the Britannia Angel business (well, at least he thought so. He couldn't help but feel he was forgetting something else...), so just what was he forgetting..?

Arthur glanced at the clock. It was already 12:30 PM. How long had he been sleeping for? And what was the date? Was there something he was supposed to be doing today? As he put the kettle on, he couldn't help the nagging feeling at the back of his head. It was something very important, but then, why did he forget what it was?

A loud beep shocked him enough to jump before a voice message was heard.

_"England-san? This is Japan. Did something come up? You are very late..."_

Late...? Late for what?

_"...I hope that you have not forgotten our meeting. I just wanted to remind you. Goodbye."_

Another beep as the message ended, but this time, Arthur only stood still, his expression the perfect image of blankness. Suddenly, as his mind desperately tried to wrap itself around the call, everything flooded back to him and it all seemed to _click._

It was Monday, and he was supposed to meet with Kiku for some reason or other.

An hour ago.

Why the hell was he supposed to meet Kiku so early? The blond all but dropped his cup of tea as he rushed into his room, throwing all his clothes out of his wardrobe in his attempts to find a set of clean clothes. That's right; he was supposed to leave early because he was meeting with Kiku in _Japan, _rather than anyplace in Britain.

The Englishman spent what seemed to him as his last moment on Earth - tardiness was absolute _blasphemy! _- charging around his house, leaving a messy trail in his wake, as if a frenzied elephant had stampeded through his house as he fruitlessly attempted to make himself look presentable, while he was simultaneously trying to look for decent clothing. When he'd managed to get his bearings together, he took one glance at his watch and finally gave a frustrated yell. There was no way he could make it to Kiku's on time! And there was much less chance that there was a plane even scheduled to leave for Japan! He was well and thoroughly _fucked._

Unless...

As if his thought had beckoned it, when he looked at his hand, there lay his stupid Britannia wand. He couldn't believe that he was resorting to this, but he truly had no choice. And besides, wasn't there a country that was currently in an emergency?

'Stop making excuses for yourself!' his mind shouted at him as the situation at hand came back to mind. He shook all thoughts from his head as he concentrated on his wand.

"I... I wish I was at Kiku's house!"

When he had managed to pry open his eyes, he gave a (_manly, _mind you) squeal of delight when he found that he was, indeed, in Japan, in Kiku's house.

Buck naked.

And of course, poor Kiku was the one who had to face him in all his birthday suit glory.

"What on Earth was that no- E-ENGLAND-SAN! P-PLEASE, GET SOME CLOTHES ON, RIGHT NOW!"

Before the blond had a chance to react, a pile of clothing was thrown at his face, and by the time he could see again, the red-faced Kiku had already stomped off, hands covering his eyes. He did not have to see that! (He did, however, think that he should have brought his camera.)

"Uh, hey, Japan?"

When the Asian man dared peek through the spaces between his fingers, he gave a relieved sigh to find that the Kirkland was fully dressed, wearing a loaned yukata.

"O-Oh. It's good to see that you're dressed."

"I'm terrible sorry to have shown up in your home like that..."

The look in his green eyes pleaded for silence, for the absence of questioning as to how he had arrived at the other nation's house, and Kiku happily obliged. Quite frankly, considering the condition he had arrived in, the Japanese man really didn't want to know how he got there. He could always make something up and turn it into a doujinshi, after all...

"It's quite alright. I was just wondering what was taking you so long. Is everything okay?"

When Arthur bowed his head in what seemed guilt and remained silent, Kiku only smiled.

"I know. You don't want to talk about it. Don't worry, I know you just came here for business."

The raven-haired male beckoned the Englishman to sit down. It turned out the meeting was related to exchange students and immigration or something of the sort. Honestly though, by the time the meeting ended, Arthur couldn't remember a measly word. The blond did his best to cover it up, meaning that at the very end he actually bothered to look at Kiku's face. What a _gentleman_ he was.

"Ah... England-san, I couldn't help but notice..."

Arthur flinched. Damn it. Of course Kiku must've noticed. He was sharp, and Arthur wasn't exactly subtle about his lack of attention, if his mindless blubbering had anything to show for it...

"...isn't that America-san's jacket?"

The Englishman stared blankly at Kiku. Uncomprehending, Arthur glanced around the room for this supposed 'jacket' before his eyes came to rest on a particularly weighty object draped over his arm. There lay what was indeed Alfred's hoodie, in all of its Star-Spangled, hamburger-smelling glory.

Interestingly, Kiku thought, dark red splotches stained the blond's cheeks as his green eyes widened, nonsense spilling from his mouth as he spluttered.

"N-N-No! T-This isn't that moron's jacket! I-It's mine!"

Somehow, Kiku highly doubted it, what with it being nigh impossible to spot the Kirkland willingly within five meters of anything remotely American and wasn't Alfred. But the Japanese man decided not to question further, instead choosing to give a simple smile and say, "alright then."

The two sat in amiable silence, a cool breeze flowing in from the open sliding doors. The chime hanging outside rung lightly, the leaves of the trees rustling quietly, and the two felt at peace. It must have been well over a few minutes before Kiku decided to drop the bomb.

"So, England-san, how do you think America-san is doing in Iraq?"

Arthur stared at Kiku, wide-eyed with shock. For a moment, he couldn't even react, and when his brain finally restarted, he found that he had nothing to say. It was so lame and cliched, like those soaps when you're suddenly told your son is off at war, that he was almost in denial that it was really happening to him. Had Kiku mentioned it on purpose? Or was it actually a joke? But this was Kiku, right? He'd never lie about something like that!

"Oh my, didn't you know?" Kiku actually looked apologetic as he said this. "Are you worried?"

"I-I'm not worried about that idiot!" Arthur almost shouted, before looking shameful and averting his eyes, lowering his voice. The trembling of his fists and the sweat running waterfalls down his temple betrayed his following words. "Why would I be worried about him? It's not like this is the first time he's gone to war. He's always come back alive. It's not like he's actually able to die."

"I can't help but think you're more worried than usual," Kiku pressed on, looking all the more worried.

_'That's because I _am _worried,' _thought the Englishman. He couldn't help but feel a sense of dread in the pit of his stomach. He thought... no, he was _sure _that something was going to go terribly wrong. And why shouldn't it? Lately, the American had been preoccupied and was acting more moronic than the norm. He couldn't pay attention to anything for more than five seconds and...

Arthur just realized that he admitted that he was worried for Alfred.

"...it's nothing," Arthur blurted out, barely realizing what he was saying. "It doesn't really matter. Anyway, I... have to leave."

In a rare display of surprise, Kiku's eyes widened as he fell into an awkward silence, before a calm smile graced his features. "Alright, I understand."

Before Arthur could even attempt to wrap his head around the situation, he found himself in an unfamiliar area. Dusty, hot, foreign. The air was thick, and he could smell traces of blood that had dried over years. Nausea crept up into the back of his throat, but not only from the rotting corpses and the pungent smell, but because of the intense bloodlust that was rising within him. But he suppressed it. He had to. He could not lose himself now. He had to find Alfred, before something happened.

After all, he was on a battlefield.

Suddenly, Arthur recognized his surroundings. Iraq. He had been stationed there very briefly. He had been taken out before anyone could realize exactly who he was, and before he was blown to smithereens. Like every war, it was horrible, but to know that _He_ was still fighting in it, and that their people were still dying, made him feel sick to his stomach, made his bones feel too big for skin, his head throb with all the thoughts running through his head.

He shook his head. He was not here to relive the past, he was here to save the future. Alfred's future. _His _damn future! He wouldn't be able to live without the stupid blond! (And for the record, Arthur never, ever thought this.)

At this very moment, he could be kidnapped, or lying in a ditch somewhere dying miserably, or being dismembered and ready to be sold to the black market or something. Alright, so maybe he wouldn't die so easily, but the mere idea that maybe Alfred was facing pain and agony that he himself had been through much too many times...

A sad smile twitched his lips. He forgot that Alfred was no longer a child. ...No, he just _denied _it. He had known for a long time that he was already an adult, independent and without the need for him. But he'd never be able to let go of the old days, back when Alfred was still young, didn't know his left from right, still depended on him...

But now, Alfred was stronger than him. Bigger than him. He had his own share of troubles, faced horrors that Arthur had never faced himself. He was his own nation now.

But right now, he needed him. If Arthur wasn't there to help him now, who would?

Suddenly, a blast resounded in the air, debris and the smell of gunpowder peppering the barren land. Adrenalin shot through his veins like a drug. Blood pumped rapidly in his ears. With these things combined, paranoia built an easy tunnel into his mind, making it hard for him to think straight. What if Alfred was caught in the crossfire? What if he started the fight and was now in trouble? He cursed his powers for not taking him to the American straight away.

A rising sense of doom pierced his gut, and he had to swallow back the bile that made itself nauseatingly present in his throat. He was more nervous than he ever remembered himself being in his entire life. What he feared the most at the moment was the sight of Alfred's mangled corpse, torn beyond recognition. He had to stop it from happening.

His own footsteps were drowned out in the gunfire, sandals lost to the rubble beneath him, but he paid no mind, running like a madman. He'd heard the shots and blast come from a building, but the structure was collapsing. But nothing would stop him. If Alfred was in there, he would save him even if it cost him an arm!

A strangled scream tore his throat when the door would not budge, tackling it down without a second thought. He hadn't realized he was flying until he found himself hovering several feet over the stairway. Frantic, his wide green eyes flew this way and that, going to some bodies lying amongst the debris without hesitation to identify them. He'd barely identified the last body on the floor before losing whatever remnant of his temper he had left.

His wings all but exploded from his back, remaining as strong as steel even as he burst through the ceiling into the dry, hot air awaiting him outside.

Something that could only be descrived as a battle cry pierced the air. Suddenly, all of the gunfire and explosions seemed muted, as if the Englishman were hearing them through an unseen filter. All that mattered was finding out where the cry came from. He was absolutely certain that it belonged to Alfred. And he was absolutely certain that he was about to throw himself into a fight.

He whipped his head around, paying no heed to the bullets that whizzed past him. When he could not catch sight of the American, his head felt heavy, and all of the strength in him seemed to drain away with each passing second that he could not find the blond.

So when he finally did see the blond, time seemed to stop.

He, along with a few other troops, had stationed themselves in a makeshift trench, opposite of a line of run down buildings from which rival troops were shooting from. A tremendous pressure was lifted from Arthur's chest when he saw that the blond was still in one piece, and if any of his hollers and constant moving had anything to show for it, it seemed that he had not taken any substantial amount of damage. Then a sense of foreboding couldn't help but make itself known to the blond.

If Alfred was fine, why was he called over as Britannia Angel?

Time answered for him as it conveniently decided to restart at that moment, revealing Alfred's stupid decision to jump from the trench out onto the open field, waving around his machine gun as if he were insane, not missing a beat with the gunshots as blood-curdling screams filled the air. Arthur had half-way expected some manic grin to be plastered on the blond's face, but instead there was a noticeable grimace as he fired.

Then all hell broke loose.

By some strand of bad luck, Alfred decided to run out of bullets at that exact moment. He reached for a handgun in desparation, but it was also at that moment that some enemy soldiers decided to spring out into the open, guns at the ready. A clear look of surprise and fear flitted across Alfred's face, _and he fumbled his gun._

He had moved before he realized he was moving. His wand was aimed at the offenders and he was hurling spells out before he realized that he had yelled out Alfred's name.

"Arthur?"

* * *

**I'M SORRY PLEASE FORGIVE ME THE IRAQ WAR IS OVER BUT IF I POSTED THIS EARLIER I WOULD'VE BEEN ON TIME I'M SORRY IF YOU'RE DISAPPOINTED I'LL TRY HARDER ;;A;;**


	7. Chapter 7

Y u silly people still reading this? It's been months since I updated!

…did I mention that I love you guys? ;;_;;

* * *

Alfred couldn't believe his eyes. He must've gone insane. Prolonged exposure to gunpowder had to do _something _to you, right?

"Alfred! What the bloody buggering hell do you think you're doing? Get the fuck away!"

With a flinch, Alfred's eyes snapped to the Briton, and only then did he realize that Arthur was clothed in nothing more than a large, white strip of fabric draped across his body, held together with a singled golden cord at the waist. But what caught his attention most was the massive pair of wings that sprouted from the blond's back. Against the bleak landscape, he was like a shining beacon of light.

He looked nothing short of an angel.

Then Arthur turned his fear-ridden eyes toward the American. Wide with panic, they seemed to inject fear into Alfred's own being with the raw intensity in them. His lips moved, frantically, cracked and dry, but Alfred could not hear what he was saying. Everything just seemed to slow down, and Arthur managed the impossible by making his glassy eyes even wider with worry. The last thing the blue-eyed blond knew was the warm, calloused hand gracing his dirty cheeks.

Then he blacked out.

The only thing that could describe what Arthur did next was to properly 'freak out'. Of all the times to collapse, why now? Horror then infiltrated his features. He could have collapsed from an injury, or fatigue or something! A quick once-over of the blond told him that no, there weren't any obvious major injuries, and he would've given a sigh of relief if not for the unavoidable fact that they were still on the battlefield.

Their enemies seemed dumbfounded. Some foreign guy in a toga toting a rip-off kid's wand appeared literally out of nowhere, so they had every right to be surprised. Of course, this gave Arthur the opportunity to escape before they opened fire. Taking hold of Alfred by the waist, he hastily took flight, deaf to the calls of Alfred's name by his comrades and the hysterical shouted jumble that belonged to the Iraqi. He had to leave, and fast. He was not risking this. He was sure that the blond would be angry, but he'd rather an alive, angry Alfred than a proud _dead _Alfred.

Clutching his wand so tight that his knuckles turned white, he twisted his eyes closed and wished with all his might.

'_Take us away from here!'_

"Ow!"

That was going to leave a bruise…

Arthur opened his eyes carefully to meet with a hard, wooden floor, sandwiched between this and the fatass Alfred. Wearily, he looked behind himself to find that Alfred was still knocked out. Stupid git. Now it looked more like the blond was asleep, what with the drooling and the heavy snores that came from him. He could probably sleep through an earthquake, and he probably wouldn't budge until one happened.

"Eh? What is little Амерука and Англия doing in my house?"

Arthur blanched. Alfred shivered a little in his sleep, involuntarily muttering something that sounded suspiciously like, 'that commie bastard'. Dreading the sight that awaited him, the Briton lifted his head, his eyes in no hurry to catch up. His ears had not betrayed him, for indeed there sat Ivan Braginski, in all of his Russian glory. A genuine look of surprised plastered his face before it was covered up with an innocent smile. There was no telling what he was really thinking, however, his pale eyelids and silvery eyelashes hiding his violet orbs.

"Well, well. This is a very interesting position to find oneself in, Да?"

Well. Even Arthur didn't need the draft freezing his ass in contrast to his burning face to tell him that he was totally starkers. For once, the Briton was glad that Alfred's lard ass was on him.

…he didn't mean it that way!

Several moments passed before Arthur realized that Ivan was more quiet and docile than usual. Not only was it strange, it was unnerving. No, screw unnerving. It was downright _creepy. _The Russian was not usually this reserved. Unless…

At this point, the blond noticed that he wasn't the only one who'd broken out into cold sweat. The Russian, sitting at his oak dining table on his equally oak chair, looked even paler than usual, and did not seem as intimidating as usual. When the Russian finally opened his eyes, somewhat anxiously, the green-eyed man noted, with a developing sense of dread, that his violet eyes did not hold threats of violence or a twisted sense of sadism as they usually did. Well, in a way, they did, but it was more of a 'if you don't help me, I will exact revenge upon you so unimaginable that I haven't even imagined it yet' kind of look rather than an 'I kill you now because I also hunt baby rabbits for fun, колколкол' kind of way.

And there was only one reason that the Russian nation, largest of not only Europe but of the entire world and once a superpower rivalling the United States, would be wearing this sort of expression.

His sister.

"Брат, why are these two here?"

It turned out that Natalya had been sitting just across her sibling the entire time. A glower set sharply in her features, she advanced towards the older Russian, hooking her arm around the silver-haired man's coat-clad arm and, if anything, only made him quieter than before. Heck, he wasn't sure if Ivan was even breathing anymore! The only thing that told the Briton that he was still alive was the fact that the poor lad was positively trembling!

(Yes, Arthur had just called him a poor lad. Trust the Briton this; there have been more surprising things.)

"Well? Why is it?" the Arlovskaya pressed, becoming more vicious by the second. The Briton grimaced, but if he was scared enough to piss his pants (or lack thereof), then Ivan was the little kid forced through hell and back, alone, and without a change of underwear. For all he knew, the larger man had already thoroughly soiled himself and was praying for the merciful Lord to _take him now!_

Ivan looked at the Briton once more but this time, he dropped all pretenses. Gone was the previous violent air. Now the look in his eyes was just plain pathetic, begging and pleading. If Arthur did not help him now, he was sure the silver-haired man would burst into tears. Not that Arthur had any right to speak, of course. He probably looked just as much a mess as the Russian did.

Okay. The blond took that last part back. Ivan's expression increased by tenfold when his little sister gripped his arm harder, the intensity of her glare smoldering as it was directed at the two blonds. Strangely enough, her glare was more or less directed at Alfred, despite his obvious lack of consciousness. But Arthur had no time to ponder this. Natalya looked ready for murder if he couldn't think of a satisfactory excuse as to why the duo had landed their asses in her beloved brother's house.

"You, always ruining the time between Брат and I," she hissed, and Arthur could literally _hear _'brother' being capitalized. He swore he heard a whimper, but he could not tell whether it came from Alfred or Ivan. Chances were it was both.

"We were to discuss wedding plans, so we could get married, married, _married!_"

Alright, in the Briton's books, she was no longer borderline insane; she was downright _psychotic._

"N-Now, now, Natasha," Ivan managed to say without crumbling into dust, albeit weakly, using the diminutive form of her name in hopes of putting her in a better mood, "d-don't put the blame on my dear guests. I, er."

Abruptly, the Russian turned back to Arthur. Even the worst, most tight-ass dictator in all of history could not have ignored the look that he gave him.

"America and I must stay at Russia's house," Arthur suddenly spoke without thinking, amazed at how he'd managed to actually formed words rather than simply sputtering incoherently. His joy was short-lived, however, when Natalya redirected the entirety of her glare to the blond. He swallowed heavily. "We, uh, have a business meeting in Moscow, and thought it more convenient if we stayed at Russia's for the duration of the trip."

Ivan's grateful look did not last long either, for soon her suspicious gaze closed in on him too.

"…why did you not tell me of this, Брат? Why are they so familiar with you?"

Now, she was hysteric, and this time, Arthur was absolutely sure that it was Ivan that whimpered.

"I, that is, uh," Ivan cried, tears threatening to spill from his already puffy eyes, "this meeting! It, uh, concerns issues in Russia! It is ever so dreadful! There are so many problems in my country! Much too many to handle! I-I did not want you to worry, моя любимая сестра! And our bosses decided this; I have no say in this matter!"

This seemed a satisfactory answer for the mentally unstable girl, and she looked up at her brother with obsessive affection.

"Alright, Брат. I believe you. Next time, you must tell me, for you can rely on me for help rather than…" she spat out the next words like a bad taste in her mouth, "_those two. _Then, we can plan the wedding earlier, so we can get married, married, _married!"_

Ivan almost started crying for real.

"Да, Да, сестра! Now, I must show my guests to their rooms! Do forgive me, сестра!"

Without another second to spare, the Russian grabbed the two blonds by their wrists and sped out of the room, heading down a long hallway with the two nations being dragged none to carefully behind, leaving a rather disappointed Natalya in their wake. Well. Her dearest Brother left in a hurry. Surely, he needed some space to think! He was much too overwhelmed by joy at the proposal of marriage to even think straight! With these thoughts in mind, she headed into the kitchen to prepare one of her Vanya's favorite foods.

Once the trio was far enough for the Belarusian nation to not hear them, Ivan lost any shred of pride he had left.

"Thank you, thank you, _thank you! _My savior! My герой!" Ivan hollered in delight and relief, engulfing the blond in a surprise hug and dragging him off the floor, making to kiss the Briton's cheeks but he was quickly pushed away with a fake cough.

"Y-yes, yes. It's quite alright, old chap. The thing is, we actually do need a room," the Briton cut in, before taking a heavy gulp. "I mean, if it isn't too much trouble."

To the Briton's surprise, rather than break out into a chant and grab his pipe, Ivan only thanked him profusely and jabbered on, "Да, Да! Of course you can have a room! Please! Be my guest!"

When Arthur had finally managed to assure the Russian that everything was alright, and thanked Ivan for letting them borrow a room, Ivan regained some of his composure and he stood up straighter, wiping a tear from his eye in a manner strangely similar to his older, Ukrainian sister. Turns out they had more in common than Arthur once thought. If this much was true, then the Braginski couldn't be _that _bad, right?

"Alright then. If моя сестра," here the three men winced (yes, that included Alfred, but that might have more to do with the fact that he was just dragged halfway across the whole house on uneven planks of wood with nails sticking out), "comes in, tell her that I, er, went out to get food for you two."

Arthur took a dubious look at the window, a blizzard raging outside. He highly doubted that Ivan would even think of taking a step outside – the blizzard was just that strong – and he doubted even more that Natalya would believe he'd go outside. But, well, Ivan wasn't exactly in a state that he could reason with, so the blond simply nodded. In turn, the silver-haired man smiled, and hurried away. Well, as best as he could without the Belarusian nation hearing his heavy boots stomping on the creaky floorboards.

When the Russian moved out from his sight, Arthur stared at the empty space ahead of him for a bit longer before turning to look at the conked out blond next to him. Ivan had left Alfred lying on the cold floor, and now the American was rolling around on the ground and hitting walls, mumbling something about heroes, Tony, and hamburger robots smearing ketchup on ice princesses. (Okay, so he wasn't so sure about that last one, but that's how it sounded like!)

A small sigh escaped the blond's chapped lips as he pondered the gruelling task before him. So he had to carry Alfred into a room, but let's face it, even Atlas wouldn't be able to carry the heavy blond. On the other hand, he could just leave Alfred there, but Natalya was still on the prowl, and she _hated _the American.

Finally, Arthur groaned. It seemed that he had no choice but to bring Alfred into another room by himself. He should have asked Ivan to help him out while he was still available. He was probably halfway to Alaska by now. The poor state probably didn't appreciate Ivan's being there, and he _definitely _did not appreciate the fact that Natalya would arrive as soon as possible the moment she found out where her Brother was hiding.

He hooked his arms under the American's armpits and began to drag the blond with much effort, his bones twisting and cracking in protest to Alfred's extreme weight. He had to pause to catch his breath once or twice. America-carrying. That should be a new Olympic sport! Who can carry the American the farthest without passing out!

After another minute of stumbling and fumbling, Arthur finally pulled Alfred into an unlocked room (strangely, all of the other rooms were locked. Arthur shuddered to think what could be behind those doors) and he collapsed to the floor, huffing. Now that the adrenalin was wearing away, he felt more tired than ever. But he wouldn't leave Alfred on the floor, regardless of how exhausted he was. But where could he put him…?

The Briton eyed the bed that sat innocently in the middle of the room. A pair of worn and incredibly bloody handcuffs dangled from one of the bedposts closest to the headboard. He did _not _want to know what could have happened there, and he did _not _want to put Alfred on the bed. It wasn't like he had a choice, though. Before the blond could react, however, the American had actually walked to the bed and had jumped onto it. Arthur froze, before the snoring returned a moment later. So Alfred was a somnambulist?

Sending a dubious glance to the wooden chair next to the bed, the nation sighed and sat down, slumping into the seat. What had just happened, again? He knew what had happened, that he was sent to Iraq while freaking out over Alfred to save him, but he could not comprehend it. He could not accept it. Why was he sent over? It wasn't like Alfred would have _died _if he were shot, or even blown up! Alfred didn't need a hero, that's what _he _was.

He didn't need him.

He stared at the other blond, watching him sleep. Even in his sleep, Alfred had a slight smile, and Arthur had to smile too when he saw a thin trail of saliva seeping down to his chin. His relaxed, childish expression lay in stark contrast to the dirty, bloody uniform that he wore. How could the American remain so bright, so cheerful, even throughout all of the pain and suffering he endured?

He, himself, was once big. Even Alfred had once pointed it out. Why did he fall? Why was he now weak? Was he depending too much on others? Was he depending too much on Alfred?

That's probably what the stupid blond wanted. Arthur flicked Alfred's forehead, and he raised a brow, bemused when Alfred's brows scrunched up and he groaned. The 'hero' wanted others to depend on him; to look to him. When did it all start? Since when was the boy so obsessed with the idea of heroism, of being someone heroic? Was his hero complex _Arthur's _fault? Was it Alfred's way of reaching out after being neglected?

No, he shouldn't flatter himself. Alfred always cared for his people. For other's people. He only wanted to help everyone (even if it was only in his own interests). He'd always made mistakes, but he always tried to correct it as best he could. That's what made him who he was, after all.

When Alfred woke up, would he be angry at him? Would he yell, why did Arthur have to take him away? He was fighting for his people, he'd shout. Why did he stop him? Then what would Arthur say?

He was worried for him?

Arthur's eyes were wide with shock. Suddenly, he could hear his heartbeat drumming away in his throat. He was truly and genuinely worried for him. But how? Worried for him as a friend? As a brother? A rival worried that he wouldn't get the last hit?

As a lover?

No, no, no, no! That was _not _blood rushing to his face! There was no way he had feelings for the stupid blond that way!

'But what would be wrong with that?' a teensy little voice in his head would snicker if he so much as considered the thought. There was absolutely no way! The stupid American was a fat slob who only ate greasy hamburgers and almost never was serious in meetings! He probably didn't even bathe at least once a week and he was selfish and fickle! Anyway, in Arthur's eyes, the blond was always going to be a child, was always going to be his brother! Alfred would always…

…who was he kidding? Brothers; they weren't even that much.

Alfred had showed him that much at the Revolutionary War. He'd said so himself; he wasn't his little brother. He wasn't someone who needed protecting. He was someone who could stand up for himself, a nation that needed no support in order to stand by itself. Alfred did not see him as a brother – did he ever? Had he ever really needed the Briton? Or was it something that was all in the blond's head? Those thoughts that the Briton tried to bury away resurfaced violently, and all because he had to save the American, for the first time ever – no, he hadn't even been saving him, he'd just been getting in the way – and it was making tears begin to struggle out of his glassy eyes. He tried to convince himself that it was because of the desert dust that had gotten in his eyes before, but he couldn't even be bothered to try and buy into his excuse.

He'd never needed him.

The blond vainly swept at his watery eyes. 'Well,' he thought bitterly, 'if he doesn't need me, then he can get out of here by himself. I've hindered him enough already.' Sniffing a little (although he'd deny it no matter what), he shakily stood from his chair.

"Hngh… huh? England?"

He froze.

Alfred blearily opened his eyes, rubbing them lethargically with a dirty hand, the other weakly grasping the Briton's wrist. Arthur could have fled at that moment, but no, his body decided that being rooted to the spot would be a great way to avoid the onslaught of angry questions that would surely come his way (and the awkward answers that would surely spill out from his mouth).

"U-Uh. Good… morning?"

Alfred squinted at him. At first, Arthur thought that it must've been because he wasn't wearing his glasses, then he realized that the blond had probably worn contacts to the battlefield. The American stared at him (making him feel somewhat uncomfortable), seemingly in contemplation, before finally he spoke.

"…wait a second. How did I get here? You… back then, you had wings, didn't you?"

Oh. Crap. He'd completely forgotten about the whole Britannia Angel thing, too wrapped up in his own thoughts.

"I… I don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't lie! That's the only way that we could have gotten here so fast! Where are we, anyway?"

"T-That's beside the point! Anyway, I-I don't have any wings now. Do you honestly think that I could have made them disappear so fast?"

"Well, you do have your… magic, or whatever."

'Oh, so now you believe in magic when it's convenient,' Arthur grumbled mentally, saying aloud, "Well, then, couldn't I have used magic to make us disappear?"

"Yeah, I guess, but I definitely saw you with wings! I'm not blind, England! I know what I saw, and I know that you're just trying to lie your way out again!"

This time, Arthur did not say anything, and instead averted his eyes, biting his lip. Trying to lie his way out, 'again', the American had said. Arthur wouldn't lie to even himself; he knew that he'd lied to the American several times in the past, but to know that all along he'd known… Alfred gasped, leaving an awkward pause, before beaming brightly enough to make the sun cry.

"Wow! That is so totally wicked!"

Arthur turned back to him, eyes blank and thick eyebrow raised, unimpressed.

"Uh huh."

"No, seriously! I've always wanted to fly! That would be so awesome! No, wait, wait, wait," Alfred said, slowing down and keeping the excited tone from his voice, sobering, "Don't tell me… is this what you've been worrying about lately?"

Suddenly, the light-hearted air disappeared. Arthur's green eyes widened, but he bit his lip, not allowing himself to shout out in surprise. He had actually seemed worried? Worried enough that this idiot blond was able to notice?

"D-Don't be silly. I haven't been the slightest bit worried lately."

Alfred frowned. "I'm not stupid, England. I know that something's been bothering you! This is what it was, isn't it?"

"L-Look, America, I have not been worried at all! Has your brain finally gotten soft–"

Alfred snapped. He sat up angrily from the bed, grasping Arthur's neck tightly, growling, "Damn it, Arthur! I know that you think I'm an idiot, okay? You just treat me like a kid, like you always have! Do you honestly think that I didn't notice? _France _noticed of all people, _France!_"

Arthur felt tears pricking at his eyes and the blood drain from his face (but then again, that could've been because Alfred was choking him). The first time Alfred had used his human name in years was when he was accusing him of belittling him!

Wait; did Francis know all along?

"T-That's not true, America! I-I've never thought of you that way–"

"There ya go! You're lying again!" Alfred shouted, releasing his hold on the Briton and standing from the bed furiously. "I know that maybe sometimes my ideas aren't exactly the best in the world, but that doesn't mean I'm a complete moron, Arthur! I know that… that maybe, I can be insensitive, and maybe I don't know a lot about others' feelings, but hell, even Spain noticed that something was off! You never tell me when something's wrong, not even when I was a kid! I know that you're a little bitter about the whole Independence–"

"A little bitter? A _LITTLE_ bitter?" Arthur finally screamed, his hands balling into fists. Getting all up into the American's face was all he could do to stop himself from punching the blond, getting close enough so that their noses were touching.

"Do you KNOW how I felt after your stupid little rebellion? After all that I did for you, you left me, just like that! It's always about YOU, isn't it? You never stop to think how it affects other people! You never stop to think how it affects _me_! You're the self-centered git that you've always been!"

"It's not just about me, Arthur, fuck! This war, it's not just about me! I'm fighting for my people! I'm fighting for _others' _people! I just want what's best for the people! So why did you take me away? You and I both know that it was impossible that I could've died so easily! You thought that I'd probably get myself killed out there 'cause I'm such an idiot, right?"

"That's not–"

"Don't even try to lie! And don't even try to make shit like that up! You're never affected! And even if you were, you would never tell me! You don't trust me!"

"Well, what the bloody buggering hell was I supposed to think? _You _left _me! _Was I supposed to think that maybe, it wasn't my fault at all? Of course it was, damn it! There were a lot of things, that if I didn't do, maybe you wouldn't have betrayed me! Maybe you'd even still trust me!"

Alfred actually looked hurt for a second, his stance faltering, but then his gaze hardened, hands pushing at the other blond's chest.

"I _do _trust you! I've always trusted you! Don't make it as though you're the one that was betrayed! _You _were the one that betrayed me! It was always secrets, always lying, always keeping me out of the loop!"

"It really was my fault then, wasn't it!"

"It's not like that, Arthur! Don't make this about you! It wasn't about you! It was about my people! Yeah, you were always pressuring us – you were fucking suffocating us – but it was not all your fault!"

"Then whose fault was it, huh? Oh yeah, anything that isn't about you is absolutely blasphemy, isn't it? You think I wanted you gone? You think I would've been better off without you?"

"Yeah, well it sure seemed like you'd be better off without me! You hardly even had time for me!"

"Do I look like I'm bloody fucking happy, America? Do I?" Arthur roared at last, shoving the American down onto the bed in a burst of anger, not letting the blond get back up as he kept his hands on his shoulders, leaning against him.

"You act as if I never trusted you! You act as if I never cared about you! Well, you know what, you fucker? Fine, I'll say it! I was fucking _upset, _you stupid git! I was fucking _heartbroken! _You were a fucking brother to me! I cared, America, I really did! But then you had to go… to go and do _that! _I was not the fucking slightest bit happy, and haven't been, since! You betrayed me! I _trusted you!__"_

Alfred's blue eyes widened. His face was pale, lips pursed and not a sound escaping. The two stared heavily at one another, neither daring to say a word. Arthur's eyes were glazed over with anger, hurt, betrayal, and something else that Alfred couldn't identify. After a long moment of tense silence, Alfred finally spoke.

"Then how come, not once have you called me Alfred?"

Arthur's eyes widened. His fists clenched tightly, so tight that they were white with tension and almost bleeding red. He opened his mouth, not a sound escaping, then he closed it, unable to think of what to say. He averted his eyes, trembling, before finally muttering out,

"Alfred was the name of my brother. But you're..."

A tense silence filled the room at the tapering of the sentence. Alfred stared, shocked, unable to believe that even after all this time, the Brit was still so hung up on their being brothers. On the other hand, Arthur could not say anything, unable to believe that he had let something like that slip so easily. The two stood in each other's uneasy presence, before finally, with a shaky voice, Alfred spoke,

"...f-fine. I get it. I'm leaving.

"Goodbye... England."

Before he could even protest, the blond was already up and out the door. Arthur could only stare at the closed door, not moving even when he heard multiple shouts from outside the room. Before he knew it, he was standing by himself, tears running down his cheeks before he could stop them. Sniffing, he rubbed his eyes, wondering why he was crying in the first place. Just how had he expected it to go? Hadn't it gone just like he thought it would? Alfred had woken up, and he'd started screaming at him...

...and Arthur had screamed right back.

After several minutes of silence, Arthur finally sighed. He pulled his arms closer to himself, before getting ready to wish himself back to his house.

He'd forgotten that the entire time, he hadn't been wearing clothes.

* * *

I have no excuses. I am so sorry for not updating in so long! It's already been a fucking year since I started, I'm so sorry! Hurl all the tomatoes you want at me, please! QAQ

I edited chapters 1, 2, 3 and 4. Please tell me whether you think it's good and if I should change 5 and 6 or if you want to have the old chapters back, for I will gladly do so.

Originally, this story was supposed to end on the next chapter, but I've decided to prolong it a little longer. I mean, in this chapter, originally the whole problem with Al and Artie got resolved, and that's obviously not what happened!

Also, sorry that the story suddenly got depressing. I have a real problem with that when it comes to stories... it'll be a bit depressing in the next chapter, but from then on it's all fluffy bunnies and candy rainbows :D

(By the way, that thing about the war not being about America? Total bullshit :/)

Thank you for reading up until this point!


	8. Chapter 8

"_Amérique_? But I thought you were in Iraq?"

"Eh, shut up, France. It's complicated, alright?"

"You, complicated? Never!"

"Just shut up, okay! Geez, it's just that I would've been distracted if I stayed," Alfred pouted, crossing his arms and turning away childishly. The Frenchman raised a brow, thinking, 'aren't you always distracted?' however not remarking on it. Instead, he sighed, leaning back in his seat and stretching. Honestly, he did not understand why Ludwig would be glaring at him so! The only way in which he was distracting anyone was because he was much more _magnifique_ than the rigid German's speech! He should be grateful for the eye-candy!

But, well, even Alfred was not paying attention to him, so something most definitely was wrong. The blond looked over to the American, who was staring straight ahead with clouded eyes. For the American to not be paying attention to the meeting was nothing new, but for him to not be paying attention to anything in the room at all was definitely different. It weren't as though he'd been loud for the past few weeks, either, but that he was still fairly silent during meetings and his plans weren't as insane as usual was still quite unnerving. In fact, the plan that he had presenting during this particular meeting was spoken in complete monotone!

It wasn't just him, either. Because for every single day that Alfred had been like this, so had Arthur.

Not exactly like him, of course. He at the very least tried to pay attention to the meeting, that much Francis could see, but it was more that he was being distracted from it by something. By _someone, _in the room nonetheless. When he wasn't trying to keep his stare on the German, he was instead sending fretful glances toward the American, always opening his mouth as if to say something before catching himself and looking away as quickly as possible. Alfred, on the other hand, was too out of it to notice.

…was that drool sliding down his chin?

"_Verdammt, Frankreich!_If you do not pay attention to the meeting, then I will have no choice but to throw you out!"

"_Quoi?_ There are people paying even less attention than I!"

"That does not make it any more tolerable!"

"That is unfair, _Allemagne__–"_

"Do not complain to me about what is fair–"

At this point, Arthur tuned out. Yeah, he was trying his best to pay attention, and on most other days he would have, but even he had to stop listening when Francis and Ludwig started arguing. Not only was their argument going to continue indefinitely (Ludwig, for whatever reason, thought it was smart to bring up the Treaty of Versailles), but it had in the process set off several other conversations (read: arguments). If Lovino did not shut up, he was going to blow a gasket, but he quickly rethought it when Ivan stepped into the conversation, smiling all the way.

Why in the world was he so distracted, anyway? Sure, the Britannia Angel stuff got to him before, but it wasn't so bad that he was no longer able to concentrate at all in meetings! Maybe it was just getting worse? What else could possibly distract him? Maybe the tea he drank that morning was off. Or maybe (heaven forbid) his scones were off. Or maybe…

…Alfred was distracting him?

No, no, of course not. There was absolutely no way.

…oh, who the fuck was he kidding. If there was one thing that could divert his attention from a meeting, it was definitely Alfred.

He let out a heavy sigh and leaned back in his seat, not even bothering to stop himself as Ludwig was still arguing with a completely unconvinced Francis. He thought (or whoever was in charge of this Britannia Angel business thought) that Alfred was in trouble at his post, so he went. What happened? Well, he certainly didn't receive the profuse thanks that would have usually resulted from saving one's life; mostly because in the first place, Alfred was _not in trouble. _So what happened instead? Well, they got into an argument and now their relationship (if there was any sort of thing in the first place) was worse than ever.

…okay, what the hell? Where was the peacekeeping part of the whole situation?

Speaking of which, Arthur had been so sure that during the ensuing days, he'd be incredibly busy with his Britannia Angel business. In fact, he'd been planning to use such business as a means to distract himself from his own problems. But instead of the onslaught of 'disruptions of peace' that he'd been expecting, he was met with peaceful easiness and lack of anything remotely angel-like.

Nothing seemed to be going the way he expected.

He sighed wearily, pinching the bridge of his nose. Just when was it that he had lost absolutely any control on the situation? Had he had any control in the first place? It seemed as though he didn't even know what was going on anymore! What was going on in his life, in others' life, Alfred's life…

…if he only concentrated on Alfred, there was definitely no way that he was going to be able to solve his own problems.

Somewhere in the midst of the Briton's contemplation, the meeting had been adjourned without conclusion (yet again). Ludwig looked like he'd been scarred for life – something that was inevitable if your were locked in a room with nations for an indefinite number of hours – and Francis looked oddly pleased with himself, while everyone else was either lost in their own conversations or as weary as the Briton. As everyone began to march off, however, there remained five people in the room.

And who else would they be but Alfred F. Jones, Arthur Kirkland, Francis Bonnefoy, Antonio Carriedo Fernandez and Gilbert Beilschmidt?

…what in the world was the Prussian doing there?

"Somehow, this has become a very familiar situation," Francis mumbled to no one in particular after managing to get over his high, sighing when he realized yet again that he had been left with the American. He wasn't alone, yes, he knew, but in the end it was only a matter of time until Ludwig came to drag the albino away and Lovino did likewise with the Spaniard. Said Spaniard smiled at him cluelessly in regards to his statement, standing next to the blond as though waiting for him to stand and leave as well. But no! He couldn't leave, not yet! He had to find out what was going on!

"_Amérique_, the meeting is over, _c'est pas__?_"

At first, the blond did not react at all, the trace of drool running down his chin trying to bungee jump as he stared blankly, but when the Frenchman placed a hand on the American's shoulder, it was Alfred doing the bungee jumping. The Frenchman almost joined him, startled by the blond's sudden jump.

"Uh, what?"

When Francis calmed down, he surveyed the blond thoughtfully. "…you were not paying attention to the meeting at all, _non? _Something must be bothering you."

"Dude, nothing was bothering me! That meeting was such a total drag; I'd rather be eating hamburgers!"

'You'd rather eat those greasy hamburgers than do anything else,' Francis wanted to remark, but instead he said, "_Amérique, _you are not as thick-skulled as you always seem to be. Even you can be bothered sometimes, and this happens to be one of those times, _non?_ So tell _frère France _what is going on. I will not tell anyone, I swear it on love!"

"It's not like the problem has anything to do with that kinda sappy stuff," Alfred mumbled, scratching the back of his head somewhat embarrassedly. Francis caught this and grinned.

"Oh, so you admit that you are bothered, _oui? _What suspiciously specific denial!"

The American tried to scowl, but the pinkness of his cheeks countered his expression. "It's not like that! You're the one that brought it up!"

"_Oui, oui_. Whatever you say, _Am__é__rique. _So won't you tell me what is going on?"

"…you know how England is like," then the blond paused to look at the blond for the first time that day, and it seemed that their positions were reversed for once since the Briton was paying absolutely no attention to him (conversely, the Briton was talking to his imaginary friends, smiling for the first time in weeks. For some reason, the American felt frustrated and at the same time concerned), "all bothered and that? Well, he totally pulled me off the battlefield the other day and was acting funny, so I tried to bring it up, but he kept on saying that nothing was bothering him!"

Francis looked a tad confused. "And? This is bothering you because…?"

"He still doesn't trust me after all this time!" Alfred almost shouted, slamming his fist against the table (the fact that the Briton did not so much as even flinch, much less look his way made the American want to slam the table harder). "He's still so hung up on my Independence, you know!"

'Oh, like you aren't?' Francis thought, sensitive enough to not comment, allowing the other blond to continue, "it's like, because we're not brothers or something anymore, we're strangers now! But he still treats me like a little kid! He still thinks that I can't do anything by myself and that he has to save me all the time! He acts like I'm so stupid or something! It pisses me off! I just wish that, you know, he'd treat me like… like…"

"An adult?" Francis finished, but Alfred went on quietly, "like his equal."

The two sat quietly, the only noise being heard the mindless blathering of the Briton nearby. Francis looked at the blond, as if trying to probe his mind, but when it seemed to fail, he instead asked, "why does it matter that you're his equal?"

When Alfred only looked confused, he tried again, "why is it so important to you that he regards you as his equal?"

The American's blue eyes widened, and, to Francis' amusement and surprise, began to stammer out, "w-what? I need a reason? I mean, you know, isn't that like, enough of a reason? I'm not a kid anymore, so I shouldn't be treated like one!"

"Whatever you say," Francis replied, "but, you know, lots of people treat you like a child, but it's only _Angleterre _that you want to stop viewing you as such. _La Russie_ treats you like a child."

"Yeah, well, I hate him."

"That is the point, _non? _Because you hate him, you want to be better than him. But here you are, wanting _Angleterre _to think of you as an equal. So obviously, you don't hate him. But you don't think that you are brothers. Then, what is it that you feel for him?"

Alfred sat there, stupefied, trying to work out the European's logic, and when he finally seemed to grasp it he opened his mouth to speak but no sound came out. He quickly shut his mouth, face red, and when the silence finally drew out so long that it seemed sound would never come back, Francis tried to ease it,

"…so wait, how did _Angleterre _get you out of–"

"Oh, so America is in love!" Antonio cooed, alerting the blonds to his presence. Alfred blanched when he realized that the brunet had been behind the Frenchman the entire time, and Francis tried hard not to laugh (failing miserably, mind you).

"Didn't you hear a word I said?"

"It is called reading between the lines, _Amérique__,"_ Francis managed to say in between chuckles, before he paused, "wait, _Espagne_ can read between the lines?"

"Um, I don't really know what you're talking about," Antonio said, in a typical display of obliviousness, the insult flying straight over his head, continuing, "but you know, it's so obvious how much you like him! There is no other reason as to why you would be thinking of _Inglaterra _so much! I wish Romano thought of me that much! _Que lindo__!_"

Of course, no sooner had the green-eyed brunet spoken the Italian's name had the aforementioned Romano stormed in and grabbed the Spaniard's arm, huffily dragging him out of the room. But Alfred did not react to the Italian's intrusion; if Shock were a face, he'd be it, and if Reality were a person, no amount of slapping would get the blond out of his shock-induced daze.

So naturally, Francis, becoming increasingly concerned, groped him instead. And where Reality failed, Francis succeeded.

"W-Whoa!" Alfred (in such a manly manner that the Governator would be ashamed, I assure you) squealed, jumping up from his seat and his hands flying to his rear. Francis grinned, hiding his hands behind his back.

"It sounds as if you two are having a little fight, or rather, ah, a misunderstanding. You should go talk to _Angleterre _and clear everything up, _oui? _If you think about it, and ask nicely, maybe you can even find out what is bothering him."

With that, the Frenchman patted Alfred on the shoulder, leaving the blond to his own thoughts, while, unbeknownst to the American, the gears in the Frenchman's own mind slowly began to turn. Everything was slowly coming together, but there was still an important part missing. Oh well, everything was sure to make sense soon; he just had to give it time.

And unbeknownst to everyone in the room, a certain Prussian cackled gleefully from the shadows, cellphone glinting in the light and a small click going unheard as the recording stopped.

* * *

This was supposed to be longer, but I feel bad for leaving this story for months – plus, it's easier to work like this, so stay tuned!


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